


His Brother's Maker

by Snooty_Alpaca



Series: Thorin's Life [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, But he deserves it, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hobbit Bookverse, Hobbit Spoilers, Mother-Son Relationship, No Smut, Original Character Death(s), Protective Siblings, Sibling Bonding, Spanking, Thráin's Canonical Wife - Freeform, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snooty_Alpaca/pseuds/Snooty_Alpaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We make our brothers. We all know that he never forgave and he never forgot. But what happened to Thorin in the 171 years in between the Sack of Erebor and the Quest to Reclaim Erebor? He lived, he fought, he grieved, and he loved. He becomes the king that Balin would follow and the dwarf loved by his nephews. Flashbacks to the the Sack of Erebor and before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are introduced to a young Thorin. Flashback to the Sack of Erebor.

** His Brother’s Maker **

_Cruel is the strife of brothers.  
_ – Aristotle

 _We are not only our brother’s keeper; in countless large_  
and small ways we are our brother’s maker.  
– Bonaro Overstreet

 

** Chapter 1 **

2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland

Thorin sits outside of his forge gazing into the clear blue sky. A sky that reminds him of a day fifteen years ago. He had been but a small lad at the time, but he remembers it well. He remembers the smoke, the wind, the fire, and, eventually, the screams. He had been out and about that day with his younger brother. They had been forced to drag along their younger cousin, Balin. Balin’s mother was convinced that the boy was in need for more fresh air and exercise. That probably saved them on that dreadful day.

2770 Third Age, Spring – Erebor

_Balin clung to his legs. The smaller boy was crying. He was too young to truly understand what the three of them were witnessing. Thorin rests his hand on the small dwarfling’s wavy, brown hair. The older boy did not begrudge the smaller boy his tears. Thorin could only watch in horror as the golden-red beast roared. The dragon screamed its fury as it flew over Dale before it unleashed more deadly, devastating flames from its massive gullet._

_Balin’s tears were leaving a wet patch on Thorin’s tunic. He could feel Frerin walk up beside him. The two brothers do not look at each other. There is nothing to say. They both know that they cannot go back; there is nothing to go back to._

_Thorin places his hand on Frerin’s shoulder and squeezes gently. Frerin turns to face his elder brother at that moment. Frerin’s blue eyes are wide with fear; his eyes are begging his brother to say that everything will be okay. Thorin just squeezes his shoulder more firmly. Thorin can promise him nothing. He does not want to give his brother hope where there might be none, nor could Thorin speak. His throat was tight with fear. He feared that any attempt to speak would emerge as a quiet squawk or a sob._

_The three dwarflings stood there for quite some time. They watch Dale burn. They watch the fell beast enter the halls of their grandfather and king. Smoke, the smell of burning and of death fills the air. The acrid smell burns Thorin’s nose and curled his toes._

_“Let us go,” Thorin says to Frerin, pulling Balin with him as he turns to walk back into the shady shelter of the forest. To walk away from the ledge and all the destruction visible from it._

_"We cannot just leave, Thorin!” Frerin shouts._

_Turning back Thorin sees his brother’s visage full of outrage, shock, and fear.. Tears cling to his lashes and Thorin is struck by how young he was, how very young they both are despite all of our pretending to be grown. They are naught but children and they were meant to stay as such for many more long years. Today, though, Thorin was certain, marked the end of childhood for many of their people. He presses Balin closer to his leg to reassure himself that the small lad was still there and that he was safe.._

_“We are not leaving, brother. We are simply moving. We must go to where any survivors will go.”_

_Frerin gazes at Thorin skeptically. “And where would that be?” he demands of the elder with a wide-eyed stare._

_Thorin thinks quickly. Where would our families likely go as a time like this? If he guesses wrong they might assume that the children had been killed in the dragon fire which was consuming the green pines that grew on the sides of their mountain. “Down the River Running to the Long Lake.” That is Thorin’s best guess. The river has smooth banks and the lake has boats that will allow the homeless dwarves to flee the area. The boats would allow them to seek shelter further down the River Running, maybe with their ally, Thranduil, in his woodland halls of stone._

_With a sigh Frerin joins his elder brother. They walk into the twilight of the trees as smoke filters into the woods. Thorin casts a glance behind. His heart is heavy with worry and he feels distracted. What if nobody escapes the dragon’s wrath? What if we are alone and I must care for what is left of my kin? Where will I take them? Can I even keep myself safe? Probably not, much less take care of two other dwarflings. It is about six leagues to the place where the River Running and the Long Lake meet. Thorin hopes that they will find other survivors on the path._

**oOo**

_The walk was uneventful excluding Balin’s sullen refusal to walk any further. After that not unexpected development. Frerin and Thorin took turns carrying the tired and upset dwarfling. Balin’s fingers are tangled in Thorin’s hair and his break was soft, warm, sweet, and even against my ear and neck. Thorin knows that they will have to stop soon. The light is failing and, even though the moon promises to be bright, he cannot force my brother to walk much further today._

_“Here,” Thorin says, stopping and looking about._

_Frerin gave him a puzzled look._

_“We stop here,” he repeats. “We light a fire so that others can find us, we drink some water, and we sleep.”_

_Frerin simply nods in response. He is too tired to argue with his elder brother, especially if winning means that he has to walk further before he gets to rest._

_“Can you light a fire?” Thorin asks his brother. He needs something to do to break that haunted look in his eyes._

_Frerin begins doing as his brother asked. Thorin paces rubbing Balin’s back while he sleeps. He does not want to risk putting Balin down on the ground lest he wake up. He murmurs softly in Khuzdul. He hopes that they come across others tonight, ‘I cannot do this. I cannot take care of others for extended periods of time. I cannot take care of others.’ He feels much too young to even care for himself properly even though he is twenty-four._

_When the fire is lite Frerin throws himself on the ground by his fledging fire. He groans dramatically before rolling up into a sitting position._

_“Stay here, Frerin,” Thorin orders as he places a sleeping Balin into Frerin’s arms._

_“What?! Where are you going?” he demands, glaring up at his brother with his piercing brown eyes._

_Thorin wants to be alone. He also wants to walk back up the river. He can walk faster without his brother and cousin. Thorin will be able to see if he can find anyone faster on his own without Frerin and Balin. Frerin’s lack of deep concern and worry tells Thorin that he has not yet realized that they might be alone, utterly and completely alone._

_Alone. It was the balmy days of summer now. But winter always comes far too soon. The moon is bright as he walks away from the fire that Frerin had built. Now that he is alone he did not need to strong. As soon as Thorin is out of earshot – he can no longer hear his brother’s singing – he sits down on a fallen tree. He can hear the sound of the swift flowing river to his right, even without sight the sound is comforting._

_Thorin’s eyes burn as he begins to cry. He knows that there is hope. He knows that it is likely that some people survived the devastation. There is no guarantee that their families are among them. Hot tears fall and roll silently down Thorin’s red cheeks. The events of the day have finally caught up with him. He is just as scared as his younger cousin._

_Thorin do not keep track of the time. He just lets time pass until his tears stop flowing. He rises to my feet and wipes his running nose on his sleeve. He feels better and more able to continue walking back towards the only home that he has ever known. The sky to the north glows orange. He can only assume that Dale and her good citizens are still burning._

_After only a short time of walking Thorin sees a light through the trees in front of him. Frerin’s fire had long since disappeared through the trees. He quickens his pace. Even if they are not family they will be friendly and he might be relieved of my position as leader. Soon the orange glow of fire was bright enough to see who carried the front torch. I broke into a run._

_“Fundin!” Thorin shouts, overjoyed to see Balin’s father._

_Fundin stops were he is standing and peers into the darkness. Thorin runs into him, almost sobbing in relief. If Fundin has made it then the rest of Thorin’s family has likely made it out of the doomed mountain._

_“Thorin,” he says in surprise once he realizes who dwarfling is._

_The young dwarf quickly releases his elder. “Is my mother with you? My father? Dís?” the words fall all over each other as Thorin asks._

_“Yes, yes, and yes. Your grandfather is with us as well. What of my Balin?” Fundin’s words tumble as much as Thorin’s just had, his voice cracking on his question._

_“He is with Frerin about half a league further down the river.” Thorin is busy looking for his mother to take much notice of the relief that registers on his older cousin’s countenance._

_“Thorin!?”_

_Thorin turns as he hears his mother’s voice. She is shoving her way to her eldest with her daughter in tow. Thorin finds himself enveloped in her embrace which would surely have been tighter if she had not been holding an infant in her arms. Thorin recognizes, belatedly, that she is carrying Dwalin. He briefly wonder where Balin and Dwalin’s mother was before those around the young dwarf bombard him with questions._

_“Quiet!” Thráin shouts. “Leave my boy be.”_

_The throng of people immediately becomes silent at the authority in my father’s voice. Thorin stares up into his father’s face when his hand drops heavily on his shoulder._

_“My son.”_

_“Adâd.”_

_He squeezes his son’s shoulder gently. The same gesture of reassurance and comfort that Thorin had given to Frerin that afternoon._

_“Frerin and Balin are further along the river,” Thorin tells his father. “They have a fire and are safe.”_

_Thráin gives his son a sad smile and ruffles his hair. “Onward we go! Not much further and we will rest.” He strides ahead to join Fundin at the front the party._

_Thorin starts to join him, but his mother’s hand on his wrist stops him. Neither of them speak, yet, Thorin understands. He scoops up his little sister and joins the parade of dwarves that follow his father. There was no laughter, no stories, and very little talk. All talk was hushed and hurried if it occurred at all._

_A cloud of melancholy and sorry hangs over everyone. Thorin desperately wants to ask his mother what happened at the mountain. He even starts to ask a few times; she silences him each time. There are many who he do not see, and just as many who are wounded. Curiosity burns inside his chest, but he will obey his mother’s wishes. He will not hear the story tonight and he will just have to deal with that._

2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland

Thorin’s leg is jerked from his body and he almost falls from the bench where he is seated. The person who kicked Thorin’s leg is swearing at him. Thorin stares up into the face of the man who has done these things. The man is tall, dark, his beard is wild and unkempt so much unlike the beards of my people. Thorin can smell his stench from where he sits. _‘A Dunlending.’_

“Do you have my order read?” he demands in a thick accent.

Thorin glares up at him. He is sorely tempted to tell him that his order will never be ready and that he can just bugger off. It was embarrassing making farming implements when they are capable of so much more. Thorin holds his tongue – something he has learned since we lived in Erebor all those ages ago.

Thorin rises and returns to his forge. If he makes our position here any more precarious his grandfather might send him away from the family for the safety of our people. The man receives his petty order. Thorin stares into the flames of the coals and remembers dragon fire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the rest of Thorin's family. His relationship with his mother is established. She asks him to look after his younger brother.

2786 Third Age, Spring - Dunland

Dragon fire on the day that everything changed. His life and the lives of his people were forever changed by the greed of Smaug. They had wandered for years before they settled here in Dunland. They no longer lived in halls of stone secluded from the whole world. They lived in the villages of men; they were always surrounded by those who found the dwarves distasteful.

Thrór and Thráin found the adjustment more difficult than the others. While Thrór ruled over them it was the same as it was in Erebor. They live as best they can, but here, in Dunland, it proves difficult especially for many of the dwarves who were very young when Erebor was sacked or were born during the wandering years.

Thrór’s firm ruling hand aided in preserving their culture. It was that firm hand that had taught Thorin to hold his tongue, even when all he wanted to do was speak his mind. It was a hand that was all too real on the side of Thorin’s head when he spoke out of turn. That first night after the dragon attack was the last time that he had experienced an intimate, familial moment with his grandfather. Ever since that day he had been as any other dwarf. Except, he was held to much higher standards than even his brother due to his place in the line of succession.

They still keep to their traditions though. In a handful of days Thorin would turn 40. He would be grown in the eyes of his kin and the rest of their small community. Until that day though he was given a few days of freedom to spend as he wished.

“Wake up! Wake up!” A voice shouts as the speaker rocks Thorin violent to draw him from his slumber.

Thorin groans, rolling onto his back. Fingers pry one of his eyes open revealing a brilliant blue orb.

“Mahal, Frer!” Thorin swears, sitting up, and shoving away his younger brother. “Why would you do that? I was sleeping as I wanted to do.”

His younger brother flops back onto his own bed that was only a couple of paces from Thorin’s in the small room that they shared. Their sister had an even smaller room across the hall. They were one of the few families who had a two story house where there were multiple rooms.

“But … Thor … I thought we were going to go up into the mountains for a few days.”

“We are, Frer, we are. But I meant to get as much sleep as possible before.” Thorin rubbed his face with his hands.

The two went up into the Hithaeglir every chance they got. Thorin took Frerin with him as much as possible, because Thorin wanted him to be free from responsibility as much as possible.

The mountains felt like home to Thorin. The pines in the wind reminded him of the Lonely Mountain. Home. Their home was taken from them. Someday, someday Thorin vowed he would go back.

“Now?” his brother chirped while bouncing on his bed.

“Fine!” Thorin says exasperated with his cheerful brother. “Can I eat first? Is the gear ready?”

“Yes, and I’ll get it ready!” With that the younger brother disappeared from the room.

Thorin flopped back on his bed. He contemplated going back to sleep to spite his younger brother. The golden sunlight coming through the small window and the blue sky beyond that window proved to be more enticing than the dark oblivion of sleep.

The main floor of the stone home was dominated by a large common room. His parents’ room was off to the side and there was a covered porch outside of the front door. Dís and her mother, Frís were sitting at the table. Frís seemed to be attempting to teach Dis to stitch designs, but the small girl was making it clear with her huffs and eye rolls that she would much rather be anywhere but where she was.

Thorin smiled. He and Frerin had behaved in much the same way when those skills were forced upon them. He grabbed some porridge and a slice of bread and butter and slid onto the bench on the side opposite of his mother and sister.

“Thorin!” Dís squealed. She promptly crawled over the table and into her brother’s lap.

“Good morning to you, too, Dís,” Thorin said chuckling as he ate around her squirming body.

Thorin brushed Dís’ wild, brown hair out of his way as he sneezed. She chattered at her older brother about what she had done so far that day. He listened absently knowing he did not need to speak to encourage the youngest of them.

He looked up at his mother who was watching her two children. Mother and son exchanged smiles, two smiles that were very alike.

“Can I come with you?” Dís asked suddenly. She turned to face her brother.

“What?”

“Can I go with you and Frerin? She asked again staring up at her brother. “I want to see the trees and stuff, too.”

“No, dearest sister, you must stay here with our mother,” Thorin told his sister. “She would get terribly lonely without you.”

“But she has adâd,” Dís pleaded plaintively.

Thorin chuckles and runs his fingers through his sisters unruly hair; working out the snarls as he came across them.

“And I could make Dwalin come over here. He’s loud and always getting into trouble. Fundin said so . . .” she continued ignoring her elder brother.

“Dís.”

“Yes, Thorin?” she asked; her wide blue eyes looking up at him.

“You must stay here with amâd,” he held a finger to her lips as she started to protest. “Maybe she’ll allow you to play with Dwalin and Balin today. How’s that sound? Hmmm?”

Dís hopped off of his lap with a loud huff and disappeared up the stairs.

Thorin signed turning to face his mother, “I’m sorry, amâd, I tried.”

“Its fine, dearest, you tried,” Frís pulled on his shoulders and touched their foreheads together. “She must stay and be safe. She will never really be happy with this situation, but maybe she will learn to accept it.”

“I know, I wish I could take her.”

“Someday, we will live on stone halls again and it will be safe for her to do as she will . . . within reason,” she added with a slight smile.

“Do you need me to stay?” Thorin asked on impulse. “Frerin and I do not have to go; we can stay if you would prefer.”

Frís laughed. “Don’t you dare stay! If you stay I’ll make you sleep outside! Your father and I need some quiet nights around here without you two horrors.”

“Alright, mum, alright!” Thorin laughed. “ We will go and leave you alone for a few days.” He rose – having finished his breakfast – to leave.

He was halfway out the door when his mother spoke again. “Thorin?”

“Yes, amâd?”

“You take care of your brother, you hear? He still needs looking after even if he doesn’t feel the same.”

I’ll look after him. I won’t let him be too reckless. He’s my baby brother and I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Thorin,” she paused for a moment, “look after yourself, too. Be safe.”

“I’ll take care of both of us, don’t worry,” Thorin said with a cheeky smile before his kissed his mother cheek.

Outside Frerin was sitting under the awning with two packs at his feet. His eyes were closed as he basked in the warm morning sunlight.

Thorin poked his brother in the stomach. Frerin started and tumbled off the bench that sat outside their front door. Thorin grinned down at his brother as Frerin stood up brushing dirt from his clothes. “Ready, brother?”

“I was ready well before you even opened your eyes this morning,” Frerin replied sulkily.

“And now you are napping.”

“I was not napping,” Frerin protested. “I was … resting my eyes.”

“Of course, Frer,” Thorin said grabbing one of the packs and swinging it over his shoulder. “Now, lets get out of here before adâd shows up.” Frerin shot his elder brother an odd look. He knew that there was tension between Thorin and their father and grandfather, but he did not completely understand the problem.

Thorin followed his brother as they began walking. The dwarves were living among the rolling foothills of Hithaeglir. After the sack of Erebor they had gone as far south as the mountains that divide the men’s kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan. Thorin had quite enjoyed their time in Rohan. The people were much nicer and more decent than the Dunlendings, but they were rougher than the Gondorians. Thorin had never understood why they had not stayed in Rohan. He suspected that there had been a disagreement between his grandfather and Fréaláf Hildeson, the Rohirrim’s king. Now they lived with the Dunlendings who seemed to always be at war with Rohan.

The foothills ran up into the tall mountains. Far north of their currently lodgings was the old dwarf kingdom of Dwarrowdelf. As Thorin looked up at the proud peaks he felt the pride and wonder that drove his forebear, Durin, to delve into the roots of the mountains. ‘ _Maybe someday I will see the city and look into Mirrormere._ For now he was more than content with a few free days with his brother in the pine forests of the mountains.

A smile spread across his countenance. “Aye, Frerin! Wait up!” Thorin shouted; jogging to catch up with his brother who’s golden hair gleamed in the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have up to chapter 9 laid out all that’s left is to write the chapters. I will redo chapter one to change it out of the first person. Writing in first person and in the present tense was proving difficult when it came to the way I wanted to express elements of the story.
> 
> Hithaeglir = Misty Mountains
> 
> Reviews are appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Frerin are hiking. Brotherly behavior - fluff. Thorin confides his fears and uncertainty in his younger brother.

2751 Third Age, Autumn – Erebor

_Nine year old Thorin sat on his bed banging his heels against his bedframe. He was worried. The dwarfling had not seen his mother in several days. Whenever he asked after her – asked his father or anyone – they would just look away from him refusing to make eye contact. Nobody seemed to have any time for the young prince lately. Tears fell from his blue eyes. He was scared and he wanted his amâd to hug him, kiss his hair, and tell him that she loved him. He squirmed and picked up his stuffed wolf from his pillow._

_Thorin clutched the toy to his chest. He rubbed his face against the soft wool yarn that his mother had used to knit his toy. He continued to rub his face against the wolf’s ears. The soft, rhythmic motion comforted the young boy. He was still holding the toy to his chest with his chubby fists when the door to his room opened._

_“Thorin,” Fundin said quietly. Thorin’s elder cousin dropped to one knee and held his arms out for the young boy. The young dwarfling rushed into the open arms still holding his toy. Fundin wrapped his arms around the boy. He stroked the little boy’s dark hair that was so much like Frís’. “It’s alright, laddie,” Fundin soothed. “Your mother wants to see you. She’s got someone that she would like you to meet.”_

_Thorin’s blue eyes that were rimmed in red turned up to meet Fundin’s, “Meet someone?”_

_“Aye, laddie, I think you’ll really like him,” Fundin smiled at the boy._

_“Him?” Thorin asked again._

_Fundin’s smile widened at that. Curiosity was growing in the dwarflings blue eyes, “Aye.” With that he scooped the small boy up and carried him down the torch lit halls of the royal family’s apartments. He looked down at the child who was rubbing the ears of his stuffed wolf against his face. The young prince was so small. He smiled to himself. Fundin was recently married and hoped that soon he would have some small dwarflings of his own with his beautiful wife._

_Thorin peered around his cousin’s arms as Fundin pushed open the door of Thráin and Frís’ private quarters. When he was set down on the large bed with its deep blue quilt. He ignored his father and went to crawl into his mother’s lap. Thorin stared up at his mother, his blue eyes wide, when he discovered that his place was already occupied. He looked first from his mother’s face to his father’s. His father was half-seated on the edge of the bed next to Frís with his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Thráin chuckled at the confused expression his eldest’s face._

_Thorin stared down at the red, squirming body in his mother’s arms. Its face looked squashed and its hair was coppery like a fruit. “What is it?”_

_His parents and Fundin laughed at his words. The small, red thing squirmed and Thorin reached forward to touch the copper hair that was so unlike his own brown rat’s nest._

_“This is Frerin. He’s your brother,” Frís said._

_Thorin made a small sound in his throat. He made another sound when Thráin pulled his elder son into his lap. Thorin dropped his toy onto the blue quilt._

_“Do you know what that means, Little Thorin?” his father asked him._

_The dwarfling shook his head, not taking his eyes off of his . . . ‘brother’. “No . . . what does it do?”_

_There was laughter again. “For now he eats, but soon enough he will be following you everywhere a you won’t be able to get rid of him,” Frís said._

_“Thorin, being a big brother is a big responsibility.” Thráin said, ruffling his son’s hair._

_Thorin looked up at his father at that point._

_“It’s up to you to help protect him, and take care of him when he gets bigger,” Thráin says seriously._

_Thorin nods – just as seriously – before turning his attention back to his copper haired brother._

_“Would you like to hold him, Thorin?” Frís asks gently._

_Thorin did not respond._

_“Here,” she said. Frís leaned forward and placed the red faced bundling in her eldest son’s arms. She carefully adjusted his hands so that they were supporting Frerin properly. Thráin placed his hands over his sons just in case._

_Thorin started. The bundle was warm. He peered down. “Frerin,” he whispered. The smaller boy opened his blue eyes and looked back. Thorin stared in wonder into eyes so like his own. Thorin lowered his head so that the two boys’ noses were almost touching. He smelled sweet. Then Frerin opened his pink mouth and squawked loudly. Thorin jerked back; yanking his hands away. If it had not been for his father’s supporting hands Frerin would have been dropped._

_Thorin stared has parents; his eyes were wide with surprise._

_“It’s alright, sweetheart,” his mother said kissing his forehead with a laugh. “He’ll be noisy sometimes . . . just like you.”_

_Thorin picked up his fallen stuffed toy and clutched it to his chest. He hugged the toy tightly. He looked back at his brother. He carefully put his stuffed wolf onto his little brother’s chest. He hummed happily and reached for his little brothers copper hair again._

2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland

That copper head had darkened into a deep, red-golden bronze with age. That same bronze head bobbed in front of him now. Thorin had never forgotten the day that his baby brother was born, and he did not think that he ever would forget. That small red ball had indeed only gotten noisier. As soon as Frerin’s chubby legs could support him he was chasing Thorin everywhere, and clinging to his older brother’s tunic.

A smile crossed Thorin’s face. There had not been a day in the past twenty-six years where he had not seen his baby brother. He could not imagine ever being separated from his wild younger brother.

“Frerin.”

Frerin made a huffing sound, but did not turn around. Thorin hummed in response.

The sunlight was filtering through the leaves and pine boughs. It was a good day for Thorin and he wanted to make the last few days of freedom memorable for the both of them. His father had been hinting at a large change that was coming. He had not pressed Thráin for details; he was not all too excited about his maturity ceremony. He did not want to be the heir for the throne of Erebor.

Thorin paused and tore a small branch off a pine tree. He began tearing the fronds off and flicking them at the back of his brother’s bronze head. It took five direct hits for Frerin to turn around.

“What are you doing?” the younger brother demanded.

Thorin’s only response was a shrug and flung another frond. Frerin batted it away while staring at his brother. Frerin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looks down the slope at his elder brother. The brother that was supposed to be the responsible, mature, non-childish one of the three royal children. Another frond was tossed in his direction he caught it, took a few steps towards his brother, and flung it with all his might back in Thorin’s face. The pine frond – even when flung with force – did not cause any pain or damage.

Thorin’s white teeth flashed in a quick grin before he surged forward and tackled his brother. The two brothers wrestled. They used to behave like this all the time when they were much younger. Once they had grown larger and Dís tried to join in their mother had forbidden such rough play in her home. Each of the brothers had their own responsibilities that were increasing; they only saw each other at home most of the time. The two brothers only had limited time with one another.

The brothers tumbled through the leaves that were left over from the previous winter and fall. Each of them had ditched their packs and were struggling for the upper hand. Frerin sat straddling his brother’s chest, “Do you give up, brother?”

“Why would I give up to such a small boy?” Thorin teased. “I am only allowing you to win . . . for your confidence.”

Frerin grabbed a fistful of dead leaves that he dropped onto his brother’s face. White teeth flashed again as Thorin flipped his brother over his head with a deft kick of his feet. Frerin had hold of Thorin’s coat. He knew how his brother fought; he was prepared to be pushed over, flipped over, head-over-heels, over Thorin’s head. Thorin was jerked over by his brother’s firm grip. They both expected the hard, sudden jerk of hitting the ground. That sudden expected stop did not come, they were both falling . . .

Thorin felt as if his stomach had dropped trough his back when he realized what must have happened. The foothills were full of small cliffs in the hillsides that appeared without warning. Thoughts raced through his mind . . . he hoped it was a small cliff, he hopes Frerin will not be hurt. If Frerin does become injured it will be his fault and his mum will be quite angry with him. On a more selfish note if something ever happened to Frerin then Thorin would be the only heir. He would not be able to leave like he had been thinking of more and more often lately.

They landed hard on the ground. The ground was a bit softer than it could have been due to the spring rains that had ended the previous week. Thorin landed on of his younger brother. Thorin groaned and shifted.

“You alright, Frerin?”

There was no response.

“Frerin?” Thorin shouted peering at his younger brother. He desperately touched his brother’s face.

“Mahal . . .” he murmured softly. Thorin lowered his ear to his brother’s mouth to listen and feel for warm, living breath. Internally he was denying what this might be.

Thorin jerked back, swearing, “Shit, Frerin.” Thorin sticks a finger in his ear trying to get all of the wet from his younger brother’s tongue out of his ear, while Frerin snorted with laughter.

The younger of the two put his palms under his head. “You should have remembered that one,” Frerin said, sticking his tongue out.

“I should have,” Thorin grumbled with his finger still in his ear.

“It’s been far too long if you’ve forgotten that old trick,” Frerin chuckled.

Thorin shoved Frerin before he stood. He brushed the dirt and the leaves from his clothes. He reached his hand down to help Frerin to his feet. Thorin grasp Thorin’s hand before catching his eye. An eyebrow was raised before Frerin pulled Thorin down with a laugh.

oOo

The fire was burning bright in the center of a small clearing in the pines. The two brother sat side by side keeping the spring evening chill away. Shoulder to shoulder Thorin watched burning embers float up into the sky to blend with the stars. They had eaten some of the food that they had brought in their packs. He was warm, full, and content.

“Thorin?”

Thorin hummed in response.

“What are you thinking about?” Frerin asked, leaning aback onto his elbows.

Thorin turned to face his younger brother. “Do you really want to know?”

“Maybe,” Frerin replied with a smile.

Thorin took a deep breath. He was not sure if he wanted to share these thoughts with his younger brother. He had not voiced these thoughts to anyone except the darkness when he was positive that everyone else in their home was sound asleep. “How would you like to be king,” he asked softly.

“King? Me?” Frerin scoffed. “I will never be king. You’ll have heirs of your own and there will be no need for me to ever take that role.”

“But… Frerin,” Thorin paused. “What if I don’t want to be king…? What if I want to leave? What if I want to leave and go to the Iron Hills to live with Nain and our cousin Dain?”

Frerin was silent. That silence stretched on for several minutes. Thorin shuffled uncomfortable. He looked away from his brother. He wondered in Frerin had heard him.

“Don’t . . .” Frerin’s voice was choked. “Don’t leave me. You cannot leave me. I need you. Dís needs you. You’ll be a much better king than me.”

“I don’t think that’s true . . .”

“Thorin, you are much better than me. You care. I don’t care enough about everybody else,” Frerin looked directly at his brother his eyes hard and glistening with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin mumbled. “I just don’t want this either. I’ll stay for you, Dís, and mother.”

Another silence stretched between the two brothers. “Adâd has been pressuring me lately about responsibility. I have responsibility every day for breakfast and I don’t want it. I want days like this with you.”

A smile flickered across Frerin’s lips, “That’s good. I’d tell him where you went if you did leave.”

Thorin smiled back laying down onto his side. Silence grew again until Frerin yawned.

“Tired, brother?”

Frerin simply nodded in response.

Frerin lay down in front of his brother. Thorin pulled the blanket over both of them. His brother’s hair tickled his nose as he adjusted the wool and fur blankets. He draped his arm over his baby brother. Frerin sighed softly and curled up. Thorin smiled while listening to his brother’s breathes even out. He nestled his nose into his brother’s bronze hair. He still smelled sweet. He smelled just as sweet as he did on the day he was born. Thorin fell asleep warm and close to his brother, both of them caught up in the moments they were living. Neither were thinking about the future and how their lives would change when Thorin was through with his ceremony in a few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this flashback to be at the end of chapter 2, but I forgot about it. I’ve been tweaking my outline, expanding it where it is needed. In the flashback Thorin is 9 years old, his equivalent age is 4.5. 
> 
> Reviews are wonderful and greatly appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We start to see the dark secrets of the royal family. Not everything is as happy as it seems. Thorin becomes an adult through the Braiding Ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. I was trying to finish off a scene from the final chapter (it helps me keep focused if I have a scene that everything is working towards). I’ve also had a little plot bunny running around. That oneshot is over 3000 words and it is not finished yet. It should be done soon and it will be out of the way and I can get back to focusing on our dear king. This chapter is the longest so far to make up for the delay in posting. I’ve also been cleaning up my outline for this story.

2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland

The brothers returned home late at night several days later. Thorin was relaxed and happy. He had enjoyed his freedom to just be with his brother. Thorin slowly opens the door into their home. He lifts the door on its hinges to keep the squealing of the metal to a minimum.

“Shhh . . . Thorin. We don’t want to wake amâd,” Frerin whispered in Thorin’s ear as he followed his brother. Frerin was following his brother too closely; Thorin could feel his younger brother’s breath on his neck.

Thorin hissed something unintelligible in return. He crashes to the floor when Frerin’s feet become tangled with his. Frerin lands hard on top of his elder brother.

Thorin swears, “Mahal, Frerin.”

Before he could clamber to his feet footsteps approached. “Boys? What are you doing? Your father is sleeping.”

“Sorry, amâd,” Frerin mumbles. “It’s my fault we tripped.”

“Oh, Frer,” Frís sighs. She pulls her youngest son close and kisses the side of his head.

Frerin squirms uncomfortably. His mother and brother both know that it is nothing more than an act. The youngest son of Thrór wanted everyone to believe that he was strong and stoic, but it was only an act.

“Off to bed with you,” Frís orders her youngest son.

Frerin glances at his brother who has not yet risen from the floor where he had fallen. Frerin stares at his brother with confusion on his face. He turns away and mounts the stairs that lead to the second story.

After Frerin’s heavy footfalls disappear up the stairs Frís turns her warm brown eyes to her firstborn. Thorin still lays where he fell with his weight propped up on his elbows. His brilliant blue eyes meet her deep brown ones. Frís offers her son a hand and he takes the proffered hand. She pulls her son into an embrace. He has been taller than her since his twenty-sixth year. She pulls him down so that their foreheads touch.

“Thorin.” Frís said nothing else. She did not need to say anything else. Thorin knew what she was telling him. Mother and son stand there for several moments.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Thorin stepped back before answering his mother’s question. “Aye, we had a good time.” Thorin sits down on one of the table benches. “Not just because it was a break from work, chores, and responsibilities.”

“I am glad to hear that, dear,” Frís tells her son. She sits down next to her son. She pauses. “I spoke to your father,” she says with a weary sigh.

“It went that well, did it,” Thorin replies with a sad chuckle. “I did not expect it to go well. He would never agree. He wants so much more from me than I am willing to give.” Thorin hangs his head. His dark, unbound hair hangs around his face effectively obscuring it from his mother.

“I am sorry.” Frís takes her son’s face in her hands and raises his somber face so that their eyes are level. “You are his heir. He just wants you to be ready. He wants what is best for you. He, himself, does not feel ready to rule when your grandfather passes.”

Thorin grumbles under his breath. Knowing this about his father makes it more difficult for him to be as angry with his strict, overbearing father. Thorin does not wish to do everything that his father desires. His father chose his weapons, his profession, his father will choose the braids that his son will wear for the rest of his life. Everything else might be a lost cause, but there was one thing that his mother might be able to get him. “If I could just have some time for myself each day . . . That would be helpful,” Thorin says quietly.

“I can try to get him to allow you more time away from your duties. He should understand that. He takes a great number of breaks himself,” Frís’ mouth quirks in a smile when she says the last part.

Thorin nods. His hair sways with his movement.

Frís kisses her son’s forehead. She runs her fingers through his hair. A smile crosses her lips. “You’ll look regal with your braids and beads,” she says as she brushes Thorin’s hair back from his face; there is pride in her voice. “You should get to bed as well. I will make sure that you get to sleep in past the sun’s rising.”

“Thank you, amâd,” Thorin says with a small smile.

Thorin climbs the stairs slowly. His feet automatically skip the spaces that he knows will creak and groan under his weight. The day after tomorrow was the day. He would turn forty and his braiding ceremony would take place.

Thorin pauses at the top of the stairs to peek into Dis’ room. She was curled up in a ball. Her dark hair was spread out spilling all over her pillow. Her hair was the only part of her that was visible. A smile crosses Thorin’s face. She was so innocent. He wishes that she could forever remain that way. He wanted her to know none of the fear and grief that the rest of her family remembered all too well. She had only been ten at the time, too young to form lasting memories of Erebor and the day of Smaug’s fire.

Frerin was already sleeping soundly when Thorin shut the door to their bedroom. His two siblings slept so differently from one another. Dís slept curled into a ball while Frerin seemed like he could not stand to have any part of his body touching another part. He was sprawled on his bed with an arm and a foot hanging off the edge. His blankets were never large enough to cover his spread-eagled form. Thorin had learned a while back that trying to tuck those errant feet and arms back under their covers was not a pleasant experience. When he had been thirty or so when he had tried. Frerin’s toes had looked cold and blue to his elder brother. He had received a nasty black eye for his attempted kindness.

**oOo**

Thorin stands in the middle of a tailor’s home trying not to yawn as holds his arms out to his sides. He does not know why his father and grandfather insist on so much fanfare for the ceremony. He groans inwardly. It was not like anyone was going to be there to see the ceremony. Their community here in Dunland, at the foot of the Hithaeglir, was a small one. Many of their kin had travelled east to the Iron Hills when they had left Rohan. All that was left of the former kingdom of Erebor was Thrór, his family, and perhaps two hundred or so dwarves that remained with their king in exile. Even with such a small company it was insisted that Thorin have a new suit of clothing for the event. He had chosen blues and greys since he was given a choice. He shifts uncomfortably.

“Stop moving,” orders the elderly grey-haired dwarf who is pinning the fabric to ensure a proper fit.

“Are you almost done?” Thorin demands. He has other things that he would prefer to be doing on this day.

“I would be,” the tailor snaps, “if you would stop fidgeting and moving.”

Thorin heaves a large sign and tried his hardest to stand still. He just wanted this day to be over. He was not a fan of any official ceremonies. His father said that it was due to the way that they had been living; _‘If we were in Erebor there would be official events often and you would know how to behave.’_ His father never needed to add on the insult that was fully implied by his words. He was not proud of his eldest son. Frerin was the favorite. The younger sun fulfilled the behaviors and duties that were expected of him. Thorin was the disappointment.

“If I’m such a disappointment then why make such a big deal about this stupid ceremony,” Thorin grumbles under his breath to himself. He looks over at Frerin who is seated on the bench beside the door.

The younger brother was picking dirt from underneath his nails with a small knife. He looked beyond bored. _‘At least he has the option of leaving_ ,’ Thorin thought to himself. He could not leave. He would get in trouble if he did not get this new set of clothes.

The tailor finished. “Come back in a few hours and the final alterations will be finished,” the tailor told Thorin.

Thorin simply grunts in response. He wants to be out of the stuffy room that doubled as a family’s primary living and a place of business. When Thorin and Frerin had arrived the dwarf had sent his children outside to play so they would not disturb his customers.

Frerin grinned as he followed his brother out of the small, one story building. Thorin glared over at his young brother. “What has you so happy today?”

Frerin shrugs.

“Everyone else is more excited about this than me,” Thorin grumbles loudly.

“Dís isn’t,” Frerin countered. “She has to have her hair brushed and wear a dress. I am also sure that she will be just as unhappy when her day comes. She’ll be expected to have her hair in braids every day after that.”

Thorin smiled when his brother said the last part. His wild younger sister wearing braids and beads every day seemed an impossible and far-off dream. Right now he doubted their mother would be able to get a brush through the tangled, matted mass that Dis’ hair was wont to be.

**oOo**

Dusk was falling over the open field outside of their settlement. Thorin fidgets nervously. He was wearing the silly new clothes. Blue shirt, grey pants, patterned leather jerkin, vambraces, and boots; Thorin feels ridiculous. His mother had brushed his hair until it shone. It shines now in the firelight. His grandfather is speaking. Thorin has to put effort into paying attention. He is waiting for a queue. If he missed the verbal queue he would surely be in trouble.

“Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór is at a milestone of his life. Today my grandson has reached his maturity. IT has been forty years since his mother, Frís, daughter of Ulir, brought him into this world. He is an heir of Durin and of the throne of Erebor. During his years on this earth he has proven to be a blessing from Mahal . . .” This speech was typical for this ceremony. Nothing was all that tailored to the individual dwarf. The speech would go on for some time.

Thorin did wish that his grandfather would hurry up. Darkness had fully fallen and the field was lit only with torches. Thorin was picking at his fingernails and peeling the skin around them. The sensitive skin burned painfully. Finally, he heard his grandfather’s queue.

Thorin steps forward into the firelight. He tried to take a deep breath so as to calm his nerves. His chest is too tight to allow for that. It feels as if Frerin and Dís are sitting on his chest restricting his breathing. Thorin had never liked being the center of attention; he had never liked feeling everyone’s eyes on him. _‘Calm yourself!’_ he orders himself silently.

Firelight glistens on Frerin’s bronze hair; it glows red in the torchlight. Thorin focuses on his brother. Thorin’s blue eyes lock onto Frerin’s brown eyes. The corner of Frerin’s mouth quirks upwards in an amused smile before he is able to regain control over his stoic, serious expression. Dís stands close to her brother’s side. She frowns and tugs at hair. She ignores all the pomp and ceremony in her displeasure and discomfort. Thorin cannot help but smile at her behavior. If their places were traded he would have been acting in the same way.

Thorin reaches his family. He has managed to ignore the crowds that he had walked through to reach the well-lit platform where his family stands. He stands in front of his grandfather. Thrór is much larger than Thorin. His physical presence intimidates. His grey hair flows over his broad shoulders and mingles and blends into his voluminous grey beard that his heavily decorated for the occasion. Here, in Dunland, these decorations of precious metals are only used for special events.

Thrór raises his hand above his head drawing all attention to him. Any sound of whispering ceases. Thrór turns to the small table to his right. He picks up a large glass vial and empties its contents into a shallow bowl. He raises the bowl as he speaks, “This water is from Kheled-zâram and today it anoints the head of one of Durin’s sons.”

Thorin bows his head. Thrór slowly pours the clear water over his grandson’s loose, dark hair. The bowl is placed on the table when it is empty. Thorin raises his head to meet his grandfather’s hard blue eyes. Thrór places a hand behind Thorin’s ear and touches their foreheads together. Thrór’s face is as hard as stone.

Thorin steps to the side to face his father’s hazel eyes. His eyes shine, with something that Thorin thinks may be pride. Thráin pulls his eldest son in and knocks their foreheads together roughly. Frís is next. Tears glisten in her wide eyes. She beams up at her son. Her smile proves to be infectious and Thorin feels a smile spreading on his own face. He bends to touch his forehead to hers. When he goes to pull back she pulls him into a hug.

“My darling boy,” she whispers.

Thorin’ hears Frerin’s chuckle and he shoots the younger brother a look that says ‘you just wait’. She finally releases him and he moves on to his younger brother. “Wait until its your turn, brother,” Thorin whispers as they touch foreheads, “You’re the baby. She will probably cry over you.”

Dís’ eyebrows are furrowed in a frown when her brother kneels in front of her – so they are the same height. Thorin raises one eyebrow at her as a response. Her frown deepens, then she steps forward and awkwardly knocks her forehead against her eldest brother’s.

Thorin rises and returns to stand in front of his mother. “Amâd,” he says stiffly. He kneels in front of his elegant mother. His back is the crowd of people. Frís steps forward. Thrór places silver patterned beads in her palm when she holds out her hand. She faces her son. Frís carefully takes up a portion of his hair and begins to plait the strands carefully.

Before she even finishes the first one of the braids Thorin’s knees begin to ache. He shifts minutely so as not to disturb his mother’s concentration. Frís finishes the first braid and secures it with a singular silver bead. She gave him a second braid that was identical to the first. Both hand down in front of his ears. She places a gentle kiss on his forehead and pulls Thorin to his feet. Thorin gazes as his mother’s face; it is streaked with happy tears. Thorin smiles at her and gives her a cheeky wink to cover the prickling of tears in his own eyes.

Thrór places his hand on his grandson’s shoulder and turns him to face the crowd. Thorin focuses on a few faces, taking note of their features before he ignores the individual faces. His grandfather is speaking again but he does not hear the words.

“. . . Thorin Thráinul!” There is applause and Thrór firmly squeezes Thorin’s shoulder.

Frís hugs her son again. “You are so handsome today. You have become such a fine young dwarf. I am proud of you, inùdoy.”

“Amâd, does that means that I look like a troll every other day?” Thorin teases.

Frís shakes her head and lightly smacks her eldest son’s chest in reprimand.

   
 _The world is grey, the mountains old,  
_ _The forge’s fire is ashen-cold;  
_ _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:  
_ _The darkness dwells in Durin’s Halls;  
_ _The shadow lies upon his tomb  
_ _In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.  
_ _But still the sunken stars appear  
_ _In dark and windless Mirrormere;  
_ _There lies his crown in water deep,  
_ _Till Durin wakes again from sleep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kheled-zâram = Mirrormere
> 
> The song at the end is the property of the Tolkien Estate. It is the Song of Durin's Awakening.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet evening at home does not end well for Thorin.

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Spring is well on its way. The breeze no longer has such a cold edge; its bite is no longer as fierce. The door of their home stands wide open. Song floats out on the breeze. Thorin smiles. His mother sings bawdy songs while she cleans out their home after the long winter. All the bedding in the home currently hangs on ropes stretched from tree to tree. The blankets dry in the stiff breeze following their recent washing.

Thorin resumes sharpening his sword. The steely scraping noise was soothing and familiar. After the dwarves left Erebor Thráin would sit by the fire pit or hearth sharpening his weapons. Thorin had fallen asleep to that lullaby for years. It had only ended when their home in Hithaeglir was built. Previously, the children had slept on bunks in the main room of the home.

The sun was regaining a warm and welcoming glow. The sun had been so distant and cold all winter. It was a comfort to see the light. The wind still carried a chill but it was less sharp. The doors and windows were open on most of the homes.

Thráin had taken Dís with him to the nearby settlement of men. It had not been a willing decision on his part. Dís had thrown a tantrum until her father had conceded to her desires. Thorin was unsure of where Frerin had gone. He had been gone before the sun came up. That was not unusual for Frerin though. During the winter months Frerin was like a caged animal and it was miserable to share a room with him.

Thorin leans back and turns his face to the pale blue sky. Wispy clouds drift lazily. Nothing hurries on this spring day. He rests against the outer wall of their home with his eyes closed. He did not know how much time had passed when he heard low, angry voices approaching. They sounded like they were arguing, but they were not fighting with each other.

Thorin cracks open one eyes to see who approaches. He silently groans when he sees them. Thrór and Thráin walk side by side with their heads bent towards one another. Dís trails several paces behind them.

Thorin rises to his feet as they approach. He sheaths his sword – it had been a gift from his grandfather a few weeks before for his fortieth birthday – and straightens his filthy shirt. He hopes that neither will see fit to comment upon his disheveled appearance. He quickly checks to make sure that both braids are in place with their silver beads. He had been careful to keep them neat. He was proud of them and he wanted his father to know that fact. He could not say the same about the rest of his appearance. His father and grandfather pass him by without a single glance in his direction.

Dís stops and stands next to her brother. She crosses her arms and frowns at the backs of her elders. Thorin glances down at her and smiles at her sour expression in amusement before his shifts to mirror hers. “What are they arguing about?”

Dís shrugs. “Something about Khazad-Dûm,” she replies sullenly, “. . . and you.’

The furrow between Thorin’s eyebrows deepen. “Anything in particular?”

There is a long pause. “I’m hungry,” Dís says petulantly looking up at her brother.

Thorin rolls his eyes, “Go on; go eat.”

**oOo**

Darkness had fallen long ago but the royal family still sat around their glowing fireplace. Sundown in the spring still brought a chill, damp wind that always managed to find a way into their warm home.

Frís sits in her armchair knitting the sleeve of a sweater. Dís sits next to Thorin on the couch; she reads his book over his shoulder. Frerin sits on a stool by the fire with a stick in his hand. Thrór and Thráin sit side by side on the other couch; they talk in low voices. Thrór is gesturing wildly with his hands. Firelight glints on a large ring that the king wears on his right hand.

Thorin turns away from his family and his book to watch Frerin poke at the fire’s coals. The orange glow shifts as he watches. The fire ebbs and flows like a river. The dry heat of it on his face is constant though.

“Thorin!” Dís protests accusingly.

“Hmmm . . ?” Thorin turns to look at his younger sister’s upturned face.

“You haven’t turned the page.”

“Oh.” Thorin flips to the next page absently.

Dís leans against him comfortably once more. He returns to watching Frerin play with the fire. Then he hears his name.

“. . . he’s not ready!” Thráin hisses.

“He’s reached his maturity! He’ll never be ready if you never try him,” Thrór counters.

“Ready for what?” Thorin interjects a little too loudly.

“We’re talking about you not to you, boy,” Thráin snaps at his eldest.

Frís stands quickly. “Frerin, Dís, why don’t you go up to your rooms,” she suggests forcefully.

Frerin opens his mouth to protest but then shut it with a loud snap. He saw his father’s stormy expression and a deep flush rising on his brother’s face. He rose and swings Dís over his shoulder before she can open her mouth to protest loudly. Frís herds her younger children up the stairs of their home.

Thorin is bristling. “I am not a child anymore! You cannot treat me like one!”

Thráin rises to tower over his eldest. “You are my son. I know what you can handle. I _will_ decide what you are ready for.”

“You don’t know what I am capable of! I’m ready for any responsibilities that you can give me.” Thorin was not sure if he was but he felt a need to prove himself. He wants to prove his father wrong. He _needs_ to prove himself. Thorin is now standing eye to eye with his father. Both dwarves are bristling. Thorin’s face is flushed with rage and his heart pounds in his chest.

“I know _exactly_ what you are capable of,” Thorin spits out, shouting. “In Rohan we almost lost Dís because of your _capabilities!_ ” The last word is fiercely enunciated, and spittle lands on Thorin’s face.

“That was an accident!” Thorin shouts; wiping the spit from his face. “I was nothing more than a child!”

“And you are still a child!” Thráin roars moving forward pushing Thorin backwards.

Thorin stumbles and lands hard on the couch when he falls. He is sweating. He feels much too warm under his clothing. He feels ill with anger. He hates that the feels cold and scared of his own father at this moment.

Frís reappears from upstairs. She moves quickly to stand in between her husband and her eldest child. “Thráin, can we have this as a conversation rather than you just yelling?” She places her hands gently on Thráin’s chest gently pressing him back.

“There is no conversation to be had, Frís,” Thráin says. His voice is much calmer as he speaks to his wife. “He’s a child. He will always be a child.”

“And you will always see him that way unless you let him change your mind,” Thrór says quietly from behind his son.

“This is your fault,” Thráin said his voice rising as he turns to face his father. “You and the damn mountain. Erebor is lost. Khazad-Dûm is lost. They call it Moria for Mahal’s sake! We’re not ready for that war. We are still weak from the dragon.”

“We could be ready if you would trust your son to stay here with the women and dwarflings.” Thrór is twisting the ring that rests upon his finger.

Thorin has been sitting on the couch. He was hiding behind his mother’s skirts and he feels ashamed about that. “I could do that, adâd,” Thorin began rising to his feet and stepping out from behind his mother, “Amâd will be here to help me if I need it.”

Thráin whirls back to his son. His eyes are dark with fury. His open hand lands hard across his eldest son’s face throwing him to the ground.

Thorin throws his hands out to catch his fall. His right wrist gives way with a painful pop. He lands hard on his shoulder. “Mahal . . .” he swears under his breath. Tears burn his eyes. They are tears of humiliation and shock. He hears his mother shout his father’s name and his grandfather’s admonishment. Thorin chokes back a sob of frustration. He stumbles to his feet while clutching his injured wrist to his chest. He dashes for the door to get out into the silent darkness; to get away from the mess that had grown up in their home.

“Thorin!” Frís yells after her son from the doorway of their home. He does not turn at the sound of her voice; he just continues into the darkness.

**2774 Third Age, Summer – Rohan: Ered Nimrais**

_Thorin strolled through the pasture to Alric. The dwarves of Erebor had been living in the mountains in the south of Rohan for the past two years. Thorin and Alric had met soon after the dwarves’ settlement was established._

_Dís was following far behind Thorin. “Will you hurry up!?” Thorin shouts over his shoulder. There was no response. He stopped to look back. He raised his hand to block the early morning sun from his eyes. He could see her dark hair among the green bobbing grasses. She was falling further behind him with every step. Frís had told her son that he would not be going anywhere unless he took Dís with him. He had fought the decision but in the end, no matter how much he fussed and snorted, his sister had walked out the door with him._

_Thorin rolled his eyes and turned back to continue on his way. This pasture had large rocks in the center. Alric and Thorin often met here. Alric was supposed to keep an eye on the horses kept in this pasture. This job was not difficult and it gave him a lot of time to do as he pleased. Thorin joined him on most days._

_“How are you doing, Alric?” Thorin asks as he climbs to the peak of the largest stone._

_“Not bad,” the older boy says while leaning back on his elbows. He holds up a satchel, “I’ve gotten something from my father for us.”_

_Thorin glanced around for his sister. He adjusted his body to shield the bag from her view. “I don’t know, Alric, my mad made me bring my baby sister with me today.”_

_“There’s nothing she can get into out here. She’ll be fine,” Alric wheedled. “This will just make babysitting the baby and the horses more . . . enjoyable.”_

_Thorin looks at Dís who is now sitting in the waving grasses. He turns back to face his friend. “Okay. What do you have?” he asks moving closer._

_A smirk passes over Alric’s ruddy face. He pulls a bottle from the cloth bag, “Mead from my father’s cellar.”_

_“My father doesn’t allow me to drink. The most I get is a few sips during special events.”_

_“Same. We can make our own special occasion,” Alric says with a wink. He pulls the cork out of the first bottle with his teeth and takes a long pull before he hands the bottle over to Thorin._

_Thorin takes the bottle but does not drink any of it. He cautiously holds the bottle under his nose and sniffs. The fumes feel like they burn his nose. He raises an eyebrow at his friend questioningly. Alric gives him a nod of encouragement. Thorin takes a sip. It burns and feels heavy on his tongue. “Ugh . . .” Thorin groans with a disgusted face, “This is nothing like the wine my father has for official events.”_

_Alric snatches the bottle back. “Of course not,” he says taking another drink, “Wine is for nobles, babies, and those witch elves.”_

_Thorin makes another face in response._

_“This stuff is made to make you feel good; it isn’t meant to taste good,” the blonde boy says drinking more. “You don’t have to drink it if you’re a baby.”_

_Thorin grabs the bottle and drinks from it. He tries not to taste the thick liquid and it flows over his tongue and down his throat. He frowns swallowing as quickly as possible. “Why do people drink this stuff,” he mutters._

_“Drink more and you’ll understand,” Alric responds as he lays back on the rock._

_The two boys keep drinking. At first Thorin keeps glancing around to check on his younger sister’s location. However, as the sun climbs higher and they drink more Dís slips their minds._

**.m.**

_Dís stared at her elder brother and his friend. They ignored her. She did not want to come with Thorin. She would have preferred to accompany Frerin and her father, but her mother had insisted that she accompany Thorin. Frís had said that Frerin was more than enough trouble for his father on his own without his little sister tagging along. At first she had tried braiding grass together like her friends had shown her. She had forgotten how to tie off of the ends so she gave up after several attempts._

_Dís looked at her brother and her friend who were drinking from a bottle and giggling with each other. She looked around for something else to do. The field was far from home and if she returned without her brother they would both be in trouble and she did not want that. There was grass, the rock where her brother was sitting, and horses. Dís gave her brother a sidelong glance. He seemed pre-occupied with his activities. He was not going to notice if she went to see the horses._

**.m.**

_Thorin and Alric had consumed most of the bottles by the time that sun was high in the sky. Thorin feels dizzy. He does not trust himself to stand. His stomach turns a little as he lays back on the rock. The sky above him seems to move like river with waves and ripples._

_“Alric?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“I don’t think I like this,” Thorin mumbles to his friend._

_“Hmmm . . .” Alric responds. Alric is seated looking into the distance. “Shit!” Alric exclaims loudly._

_“What?” Thorin asks sitting up despite his spinning head to see what caused his friend’s distress._

_“Our fathers.” Alric is stuffing the bottles back into the bag._

_Thorin spun around quickly following Alric’s gaze; he fought down nausea at his sudden movement. Their fathers’ faces were hard. “Do you think they know?”_

_“Undoubtedly . . . I thought he was too hungover and busy today to notice. In a few days he wouldn’t be able to remember if he had drank them or if they were really missing.” Alric’s face was green around the edges._

_Thráin and Alric’s father, Alaric, stood at the base of the rock pile by this point._

_“Thorin.”_

_Thorin leaned over; he fights to control his stomach. Guilt floods him and he feels a warm rush and blood flushes his face. “Yes, adâd?”_

_“What are you doing?” Thráin demands._

_“Nothing, sir,” Thorin says softly. He knows that tone of voice. It promises trouble if he does not cooperate._

_“Where is your sister?”_

_“She is . . .” Thorin starts to answer. He looks over to where he had last seen her to point, but she was no longer there. “She was over there,” he finishes lamely._

_“Find her,” Thráin orders his eldest._

_“You, too, Alric,” Alaric adds in, “Help find his daughter.”_

_Both boys simultaneously look at one another then they looked at their fathers. “Adâd,” Thorin began._

_“You’re both too pissed to walk aren’t you?” Alaric demands loudly fixing his son with a hard stare._

_Alric stares at his boots._

_“I’ll deal with you later. This will not be forgotten.”_

_Both boys hang their heads. Thorin’s ill feeling spreads throughout his body. He wonders where Dís had gone. The father’s had walked off to find the young girl. There is shouting of Dís’ name. Thorin looks towards where his father had gone. He feels cold when he sees his father walking quickly and carrying Dís in his arms. Thorin half climbs down and half falls from the rocks so that he can see his sister. Thorin peers at his sister as his father brushes past the young dwarf. Her eyes are closed and there is blood and a nasty bruise on her forehead. “Dís?” He says reaching out for her. There is no response. “Dís?!”_

_Thráin turns to look at his eldest. He says nothing but his hazel eyes are hard and cold as he meets Thorin’s own blue eyes. Thráin’s hazel eyes promise trouble for his eldest. His eyes shout_ ‘Failure.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not want Thrór and Thráin to be this way, but gold-sickness has a hold on them. Gold-sickness and that ring have control over the line of Durin.
> 
> Moria – meaning: black pit
> 
> Flashback Ages: Thorin 28 (14) and Dis 14 (7).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has not been edited or proofread. I wanted to get it posted. I got a new computer and moving over all my documents and notes took quite a bit of time. 
> 
> Thrór and Thráin are not meant to be nasty and mean. They do really care about Thráin and his siblings, but that does not mean that everything is sunshine and roses. To clear this up: Thráin is not abusive nor is he meant to come off as abusive. He’s supposed to be at his wit’s end and frustrated, I hope the opening scene here clears that up. This chapter is nothing like what was in my story outline/plan, but I like it better. This is why your reviews matter!
> 
> I also need Thorin to be unable to fight. ;)

_Kings are slaves of history.  
\- _ Leo Tolstoy

_All happy families resemble one another,_  
each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.  
\- Leo Tolstoy

                                                                             

Chapter 6

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

After Thorin storms out Thráin disappears into the master bedroom and slams the door. Frís and Thrór stand in the main room that thirty minutes before had been warm and comforting and now it is empty and full of tension. The room had been silent before but this silence was different; this silence is deeper and more troubling. Faint creaks echo as someone tries to descend that stairs as quietly as possible. Frís meets her youngest son’s brown eyes when he pulls aside the curtain that separates the stairs from the living space.

“Father, I think that it would be best if you leave,” Frís tells her father-in-law softly.

Thrór makes a grumbling sound deep in his chest before nodding his assent. “Aye, that might be best,” he says.

Frerin pulls aside the curtain and steps out cautiously after his grandfather exists their home. “Amâd, where’s Thorin?” Frerin asks looking around the shadow filled room.

“He went outside,” she tells him, “I’m not sure where he went after that.”

Frerin’s shoulders slump in defeat.

"Oh." He looks at his feet. "I heard the argument. Dís heard as well... She's rather upset. She thinks that it's her fault. I told her that it's not her fault that Thorin and adâd fight sometimes."

"Thank you, Frerin," Frís says as she steps forward and hugs her son. "I have to deal with your father and Thorin tonight and I don't think that I could handle having one more person to soothe right now."

A partial smile crosses Frerin's gentle features; he hugs his mother back. "Anything I can do to help." The hug parts. "Is there anything else?"

"No, dear," Frís says tiredly, "I would send you to find your brother, but I don't think that he wants to be found right now. I suppose that he will return when he is ready."

"He'll be fine, amâd. He'll be back tomorrow morning if he's not back tonight."

"I know," Frís murmurs.

Frerin waits awkwardly for a few moments. “I’ll be going to bed.”

“Sleep well,” Frís tells her son absentmindedly. 

After Frerin’s footsteps disappear Frís banks the fire to keep the coals alive until the next morning before she goes into the master bedroom to confront her irate husband. The room was dark except for a candle on the table on Thráin’s side of the bed.

Thráin is laying on his back on the low bed with his arms crossed over his chest. Frís stops and stands by his side. "Well?" Frís demands, crossing her arms across her chest. She fixes him with the same steady glare that she gives her children when she catches them with their hands in a pie or when one of them tramps mud through her home. It is her mother's stare. The stare that all mothers have.

"I didn't mean to," Thráin says quietly, "I really didn't mean to, Fris." He sits up to face his wife.

Frís does not respond. She continues to fix him with her firm stare.

"My father and I were arguing about this for the entire day. He's been on me about this for weeks and he just would NOT let it go today," Thráin scrubs at his face with his hands. He sighs. "I just want to keep him safe. I just want to keep all of our people safe. I really don't think he's ready for that amount of responsibility. I don't think that he'll be ready for a long time. The even with Dísis only one of the reasons. I don't want him to be ready for that, yet. He's a child, but I want him to remain as such. So much of his childhood was stolen from him . . ." He trails off and gazes at his wife who has sat down on the bed beside him.

Frís looks at Thráin. She feels sorry for him. He is struggling to do what is best for his family despite the pressures of his king but that does not mean that it's okay for him to take his frustration out on anyone else.

"I've been trying to talk him out of it all day and then Thorin steps in siding with my father! Undoing all the work I spent today doing. I was just so angry. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? Why couldn't he just mind his own business and keep his mouth shut? Why couldn't he..." Thráin groaned rubbing his eyes firmly with his right hand. There was a pause and another heavy sigh. "I turned quickly and I didn't mean to hit him..."

Frís continues looking at her husband until she decided how to respond. "I understand," she says softly. She reaches over to touch Thráin’s cheek. "Thorin will understand when you tell him that. He's a smart lad. . . . Even if he is impulsive. He's so much like you in some aspects."

Thráin stretches out on the bed tucking his palms under his head. "I wish he wasn't. It would make life much easier for him if he were more like Frerin and your side of the family."

"He'll turn out just fine. Just like you did," Frís assures her husband.

Thráin’s only response is to grumble under his breath. Frís smiles at him and pulls blanket up from the foot of the bed to cover both of them.

**oOo**

Thorin woke the next morning to beams of sunlight in his face. Chafe floats in those streams of light. The warm, dusty smell of hey fills the small space where he had chosen to sleep. He had entered the stable the night before because there was a lantern hanging inside the door. He had not wanted to return home; he felt like too much of an idiot. He awkwardly shifts his weight so that he is seated and leaning against the wall of the empty stall. This done awkwardly because he only uses one hand. He had sprained his right wrist when he fell the night before. He had strapped it so his right hand was positioned over his left breast. It was held in place by his belt that crosses diagonally the other way.

"Idiot," he murmurs to himself. He does not know what made him open his mouth to challenge his father. Even as he had spoken out the second time he was internally screaming at himself to shut up. That part of him agreed with his father's assessment of his own worth. Twelve years ago his foolishness had ended badly.

 

**2774 Third Age, Summer - Rohan: Ered Nimrais**

_When he was able Thorin follows his father home. Here the rock and dirt was soft and their homes were built half into the ground. You had to descend several steps to enter the front door of the homes. The windows and the door of their small home were thrown open to let in the warm - almost overly so - sunlight. Normally there are merry sounds floating from the open windows. However, today it is silent. Thorin pauses at the top of those steps looking down into the entry way of the home. He knows he must go forward but he does not want to; he is hesitant. He takes a deep breath and takes that first step downwards._

_Despite the bright sunlight that streamed through the windows that had been flung wide the room was still dim and full of shadows. Thorin is forced to stop and let his eyes adjust to the drastic change in lighting. His parents have a private room off of the main room, but the children have bunks that are built into the walls with curtains for privacy. Once he can see easily - only a matter of seconds - he sees his mother and father, Alaric, and an elderly man standing around his sister who was lying in her bunk._

_Thorin crept closer as quietly as he could to avoid having anyone take notice of him. Dis' eyes are still closed. Her face has been washed which makes the purpling bruise on her left temple and the cut in the center stand out starkly against her skin._

_"I'm surprised she lives at all," the white-haired elder is saying, "You dwarves must be made of hardy stuff. She is unconscious. She may yet be fine if she wakes in the next few days. Until then there is not much else that I can do. You can try to give her some water, but, other than that, all you can do is wait."_

_Silence meets the man as he finishes speaking._

_"Thank you, Ethelstein," Alaric offers softly guiding the man out of the home. Before he leaves he turns back to look at the family, his expression is strained and sad._

 

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Dís had woken up and she had been fine. _‘Thank, Mahal.’_ Thorin had never been punished for his behavior on that day. He had later asked his mother why he had never faced justice for his misdeeds. She had told him his father felt that Thorin was punishing himself enough. Thorin had not left Dis’ side after that day. After they left Rohan that had changed. Díswas no longer quite so helpless. She had also harangued her brother, she was tired of the constant attention and just wanted him to go away. Thorin had never seen Alric again. He had been so ashamed of his actions that he could not face his friend.

Thorin rises to his feet awkwardly as he only has the use of his one arm. He unstraps his arm so he can survey the damage to his wrist. It is swollen with deep purple bruising on one side. He wiggles his fingers experimentally. His wrist aches at the movement and not all of the fingers move as they should. “Damn,” he swears loudly. The sprain is worse than he thought. Of course he had to land on his dominant hand. He would be unable to wield his sword or swing a hammer until the wrist heals.

Thorin leans against the wall of the stall and stares up into the dusty rafters. The sun cast dark shadows while washing out the other colors with golden light. At that moment Thorin looks majestic. The golden glow of sun falls upon his angular face. He looks much older than his forty years.

He turns to leave the quiet comfort of the early morning in the stable. He heads to the forge. Even if he cannot swing a hammer Irli would still have work for him to do to fill his assistant's time.

"You're late," the black-haired dwarf says gruffly when Thorin walks into the forge. Irli was not as old as Thorin's parents but he was still much older than Thorin himself.

"Sorry…" Thorin mumbles.

Irli turns to face his assistant. "What's got you in such a sour mood?"

Thorin was normally is a good mood when he was around Irli; he was cheerful around the forge because he quite enjoyed his work. "I . . . I injured my hand," Thorin said holding his right hand out for examination.

Irli grunted as he inspects Thorin's wounded hand/wrist. "Hmm... You can still work the bellows and carry coal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then hop to it." Irli was not going to allow his assistant easy weeks. Thorin would perform the grunt tasks; the same tasks that he had performed exclusively during the early time of his time with Irli.

**oOo**

The sun was setting by the time that Thorin makes his way home. He had spent the day keeping the forge alive and carrying iron around. He is exhausted as he walks under the purple twilight and the moon rise. His shirt is damp with sweat and he is smeared with more soot than usual. The door to his home was still partially opened. He stood in the path of the light for a few moments before pushing open the door. The family are sitting around the fire, much like the night before except for Thorin and Thrór. They all turn to look at the sound of his footsteps.

Frís rises to her feet to greet her son. “Thorin.”

“Amâd.”

Frís looks at his wrist and takes hold of it to inspect it. “This needs ice,” she says while probing the wrist.

Thorin winces despite the gentleness of his mother’s hands. “It can wait. I need to do other things right now.” The mother looks up at her son’s face and steps back, out of his way.

Thráin stands as his son approaches him. Thorin makes eye contact with his father for a few moments before speaking. “Adâd . . . I spoke out of turn. I should not have pressed the issue. My behavior emphasizes and proves your point. I’m sorry.” Thorin bows his head and closes his eyes in deference to his father.

Thráin pulls his son roughly forward so their foreheads are touching. “Inùdoy, I’m sorry. I want to keep you safe. That wyrm took so much from you and I don’t want the fallout from him to take even more.”

Thorin opens his eyes to look at his father; he pretends not to see the extra moisture in his father’s hazel eyes. He is pulled into a tight embrace by his father.

“Nothing is as it should be. Our home should never have been taken from us. I never wanted you and your siblings to have such a hard life. It was not meant to be this way,” Thráin says softly so the words are only heard by the two of them.

Thorin half-laughs. “That old man with the hat that comes around every so often likes to say, ‘All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.’ I’ll do whatever you need me to do and I’ll do it to the best of my abilities. I won’t let you down.”

“I know, inùdoy, I know,” Thráin says nodding his head. The hug breaks apart and father smiles at son.

The happy moment between father and son only lasts a few moments, however, before it is shattered by noises from the outside. There are shouts from dwarves, but there is something else. There are shrieks from something much fouler that ring over the battle cries of the men and the shouts of mothers for their children to gather close. The blood drains from Thráin and Frís’ faces.

“What is it, adâd?” Frerin asks coming to his father’s side.

Thráin turns his pale face to his youngest son, “Orcs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ominous music* 
> 
> As always your favorites, follows, and reviews are important. The reviews are the most important because they allow me to fix perceptions of the characters.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orc attack in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we’re getting into the first parts of the ‘tragedy’ genre of the story. You get this update on time and it is much longer than my normal chapters. The chapter got away from me. I had so much that I wanted to cover and is no way to conveniently split the chapter into two separate chapters. This chapter has angst!Thorin an sibling bonding; enjoy!

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Thorin freezes. Despite the hardships they had lived through since Smaug took Erebor they had managed to avoid any severe encounters with large groups of orcs or goblins. All of the training that he and his brother had received was under the premise that this day might come, but they both lacked the belief that it would ever come. Now it was here and Thorin feels cold. _‘I’m not ready,’_ he realizes. _‘My father is right about me.’_ Thorin does not feel ready for this; he wants to retreat and be a child that no longer worries about these things. To be a child that will be protected by his elders. Thorin is no longer a child, even if had been a decade younger he would be expected to defend himself to some degree. The family stands together frozen for mere moments in silence while the world outside their home falls apart. Both sons look first to their father, but their gazes linger on their mother. Moments. A few breathes before there is movement.

Thráin grabs his sword from the rack on the wall as he dashes outside. Thorin and Frerin follow their father – not grabbing any weapons themselves – as he runs out the door into the dark twilight. They stop outside the small home to see that the falling night is no longer as dark as it had been while Thorin was returning from the forge. An orange glow overlays the purple of the disappearing sun. This orange glow is all too familiar to the dwarves or Erebor. Fire. The orange glow is often comforting. It is the fire in their forces, the fires in their hearths welcoming them home at night, and cheery bonfires during community gatherings. Tonight that glow much more ominous. It was a glow not unlike that seen in Erebor decades earlier. The orange fire glow tonight comes from homes from their small community that have been set alight.

 Thráin speaks almost instantly after surveying the scene. "Thorin, take your mother and siblings and get away from here. Go to the settlement of men. Keep them safe. We will meet you there when it is safe.”

"Adâd! I can fight!"

"No!" Thráin says sharply then continues more softly and places his hand on Thorin's shoulder, "No, you cannot fight by my side today. You are injured…"

"And," he continues, interrupting Thorin's protest, "Your mother needs you,” they both look in Frís’ direction before Thráin continues softly, “If we should fail it falls to you and your brother to keep your mother and sister safe." Thráin presses a small purse into his sons hand and there is a clink of coins. “For a room at the inn if we’re not there when you arrive,” he explains.

Thorin nods quickly before turning to drag his younger brother back inside their home, leaving their father to rally their men and fight.

“Get something that you can defend yourselves with,” he tells his mother and brother, “We’re to go the men’s village.” He grabs his own sword from the rack.

He is swearing internally. He has some armor of his own, but all of their precious little armor is kept in the armory. The armory is a locked building that is off the forge and is kept lock at most times. Today his sword belt feels heavier. It is not due to the weight upon his injured wrist. Today is the first day that it may not simply be used in training, today the sword might taste the blood of his enemies; today the sword might be used for its intended purpose. The weight of responsibility feels much heavier on his shoulder today than ever before. _‘To think… I was begging for this yesterday.’_ Yesterday feels longer ago than a single day before. _‘And it is only going to get longer before the sun rises again_.’

Thorin hefts his shield and attempts to draw the sword with his right hand. “Mahal!” he swears loudly. He drops the sword back into the sheath when his wrist spasms and his muscles refuse to cooperate. He hastily reverses the belt so the sword is hanging on his right side; an awkward place. It makes him feel a little unbalanced with the sword on the right and the pair of knives on his left hip.

Frerin is standing next to his mother; he clutches his pair of daggers tightly, but his face is drawn and tight. Sweat glistens on his forehead despite the cooling spring evening wind.

"Take my shield," Thorin says thrusting the round wooden shield with a metal boss at Frerin. 

"But..."

"I cannot carry it. II only have one good hand right now. If I need to use my sword I cannot use the shield at the same time," he forces the weighty object into Frerin's now unresisting hands. 

He has nothing to give Frís and Dís, but they should not need any. His mother still has a dagger if the worse should come about. She knows how to use it. She has the tattoos to prove her own skill. She was not always a mother as Thorin had been shocked to learn when he was still very small. Thorin quickly tests the weight of the sword in his left hand. It feels unnatural and heavy; when he wields the sword in his dominant hand it feels like an extension of his arm, as it should after the nearly twenty years of regular training that he has undergone. Every once in a while he was forced to practice using his non-dominant hand, but it felt so awkward when compared to his right hand that he never spent much time practicing. Now he is cursing himself for not caring about Fundin's urging that this would be important and useful.

“Let’s go,” he says as his mother quickly banks the fire which casts the room into a dim light.

“What about me?” Dís demands, “Don’t I get a weapon.”

“Not now!” Frís says grabbing her daughter’s hand, “You wouldn’t know what you’re doing, and we need to go . . .”

“Now!” Thorin and Frís say at the same time.

The four exit the home in a tight knit group. The orange glow is brighter now as the flames have leapt higher and are burning hotter. The din of shouting and iron on iron are much louder now. Shadows of figures are silhouetted against the flames. Thorin pauses to see if any of them are his father, but there is far too much movement.

“Stick close,” he orders. Frís follows her eldest closely. She holds Dis’ hand so as to not lose her. Frerin brings up the rear of their small party. The home of the royal family is towards the center of community. The orcs attacked from the northeast, from the mountains; it is the homes on the northeast side that are aflame. The nearest settlement of men is about three leagues south.

Time is running slowly for the eldest child of Thráin. His heart is pounding and his breath is coming hard in his chest. He feels like he just ran up the mountain chasing his baby brother rather than just creeping along the sides of homes to remain in the cast shadows.

The dark shadows under the trees were only a hundred yards away.

Two hundred yards.

One hundred.

Dis cries out as she stumbles over the hem of her dress.

“Mahal!” Thorin swears under his breath. He spins around to haul her to her feet. “Are you going to trip again?” He hisses.

Dis scowls at him. “Probably,” she replies as she tugs at the skirt.

Thorin yanks out one of his daggers with his left hand and grabs her skirt and roughly cuts several inches off the bottom. The cut is ragged and ugly but the skirt now ends about halfway between her knees and ankles. “If you manage to trip on this it will be a miracle.”

Dis nods.

“Let’s move on then.”

Under the shelter of the pines and oaks the shadows are much darker. The wide boughs of the trees block out the glow of the moonlight while the trunks block out the orange glow of the flames. Thorin is pushing ahead quickly. He does not notice that he is leaving his mother and siblings behind until he hears his mother’s voice.

“Thorin! Stop!” Frís says as loudly as she dares in the quiet. None of them can see far in any direction; they have no idea how close or how far away anyone or anything could be.

“We have to keep going,” Thorin whisper-shouts, “Adâd ordered me to keep you all safe and I am sure as hell not going to disappoint him in this important task.”

“I understand, dear,” Frís says while reaching out to touch her son’s face in the near darkness. “But we cannot move this quickly. It is too dark.”

“Amâd…” Thorin begins only to be cut off.

“I am still your mother. I do not fall under your authority, yet. Even if I did, I am still your elder. We need to walk slower or one of us is going to trip and take injury.” She gently strokes his face with her thumb to take some of the sting out of her words.

Thorin nods his head slowly. “Alright, we’ll do as you say.”

“That right. You will do just as I say.” Even through Thorin cannot barely see her face in the darkness he can hear the smile in her voice.

“But we do have to keep moving,” Thorin says almost under his breath. He takes Dis’ hand as his mother took the lead. Dis’ hand is warm and sweaty in his own. She feels very much alive and well. He feels uncomfortable letting his mother take the control away from him after his father had just given it. This was the first large responsibility that he had been given in quite a while and now it was in the hands of his mother. Maybe his father would never know, he would never need to know that the success of the event was due to his wife and not his eldest child.

The small group keeps walking in silence. There is no noise except for the sound of their feet on the soft soil of spring. They had gone about a league before there was any other noise. “What was that?” Frerin asks, there is panic in his voice.

“Shhh!” hisses Thorin who releases Dis’ hand to reach for his sword.

“There it is again!” Frerin’s voice is louder this time and higher in pitch.

“Shhh!” Thorin repeats. He reaches over and smacks Frerin hard in the chest.

Frís moves back to join her sons. She presses Dís behind her so that her daughter’s back is against a tree. She stands her sons who are the closest to where the unknown sound had come from. The sound did not come again.

Thorin holds his brother’s sleeve to keep him in check. His hand on his brother’s sleep is as much to keep him grounded as it is to keep Frerin grounded. Thorin’s hand shake where they are clenched around his sword and his brother’s shirt sleep. He feels week and unsure. Cold fear knots in his stomach. His blood feels sluggish. If he needs to move he’s sure that it will be slow like he is frozen with this cold that is spreading from his belly and from his heart.

“Maybe it was a deer?” Frís suggest quietly.

“Or maybe it was nothing,” Frerin responds.

Thorin feels his brother’s stance relax as he takes his hand away from the hilt of his dagger. He lowers the shield and his arms hang at his sides.

“Or maybe it was something!” Thorin says turning to face his mother.

“Thorin!” Frís shouts.

Only instinct and years of training save Thorin. He spins back to the dark woods and away from his family. As he turns he draws his sword in his left hand and raises it to block his head. The iron blade of an orc screams against his sword as it skids downwards to the cross guard of Thorin’s sword. Frerin surges forward and slams into the orc with the boss of the shield that he is carrying and stabbing the orc in the gut with his dagger.

“Back to back, Frerin, back to back!” Thorin orders his younger brother. This is only a small group, not more than five orcs one of which has already been disposed of. Thorin swings his sword clumsily, but manages to do away with two of the orcs despite his bad sword work combined with knife work that is only a little better. Frerin smashed on with the boss of the shield and it had not risen from where it had fallen. One had slipped past the two brothers where Frís had engaged and quickly dispatched of the foul beast. Her work was much cleaner and swifter than her sons due to her more time spent training. She only ever learned how to use a dagger while her sons were trained in a variety of weapons.

“Is everyone okay?” Thorin asks glancing around at the fallen orcs.

Frerin nods.

“We’re all okay, Thorin,” Frís says after a few moments of silence.

Dis stares at her mother with wide eyes. “Amâd . . . I did not know you could fight like one of the men.”

“I can, and when you are old enough you will be trained just like your brothers. Our training is always different though,” Frís rubs her daughter’s hair with her free hand.

They stand in silence for a few moments before Frís speaks again. “I’m going back.”

“What? Amâd, no!” Thorin says. The cold knot of fear returns to his stomach. If she leaves then he is really in charge. He is alone. There is no one there to tell him that maybe he should be making a different decision.

“This group made it past them,” Frís’ eyes are bright with fear as she speaks, “I _must_ go back to make sure that your father is okay.”

“He’s a good fighter, I’m sure that he’s okay,” Frerin interjects before his elder brother can speak.

“Thorin,” Frís speaks before Thorin can get any words out of his open mouth, “It is your duty to take your brother and sister onward. It is your duty to do as your father instructed you.” Frís holds up a hand to stop Thorin’s protest, “But it is my duty to return to your father’s side. I must make sure that he is okay. I know that Frerin and Dís will be just fine with you. You are both more than capable of this.”

“He told me to make sure that _you_ got there safely as well!”

Tears of fear cling to Frís’ eye lashes. “My duty supersedes yours, Thorin. You’re not going to be able to change my mind, inùdoy. Besides, I’m also telling you to take your brother and sister the rest of the way.”

Thorin stares blankly at his mother. “But . . . amâd . . .”

“You can do this, Thorin. I’m so proud of you. I’m so proud of all of you.” Frís pulls her two sons into a hug as Dís is already clinging to her. “I will see all of you tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I’ll be with your father. Everything will be just fine. You’ll see.” Frís presses her forehead to each of her children’s before she leaves them.

The three siblings stand and look at each other after they watch their mother walk back to the north. Thorin feels ill. He cannot help but feel that there is something wrong, that everything will _not_ be okay the next day. Those orcs getting past the dwarves was not a good sign in the first place. “I wish I could have made her stay,” Thorin says hanging his head.

“Thorin . . .” Dís begins, her voice is trembling. I’m scared.”

“I know.” Thorin pulls his sister close. He reaches of to squeeze Frerin’s shoulder before continuing, “We need to keep going.”

Almost two hours later, the full moon has reached its apex, the three siblings stumble into the town without suffering any further incidents. They had all been here several times and know where the inn is located. The breeze has only grown colder as the night grew older. The inn is warm as they push their way through the door.

Thorin leans against the counter the catch the innkeeper’s attention. “We need a room.”

The man behind the counter looked the three dwarves over before responding, “We don’t give rooms out to beggars with no food.”

“We are not beggars,” Thorin says firmly. “Our grandfather in Thrór. We are Thráin’s children. Surely you’ve heard of them?” Thorin continues in a patronizing tone. “And we _do_ have money.” Thorin pulls the small purse he father had given him earlier that evening – so very long ago – and lightly tosses it in the air before catching it again.

“I’ve got one more dwarf-size room available. It only has two beds.” The man watches the purse greedily.

“Two beds is fine.” Thorin pays the man and the siblings follow him to the room that they have paid for.

Frerin flops down onto the bed nearest the door. He does not even take his boots off and he is snoring. Thorin sits down the bed that is nestled in the corner and peels his boots and weapons off. He hangs his sword belt from the bed post. He stretches out under the blankets. “Here, Dis, you can sleep in the bed with me.”

Dis does not respond. She simply climbs into the bed next to him and nestles under his chin. He wraps his arms around her shaking body. “Shhh…” he soothes while gently stroking her dark hair. “It’s okay. I promise it’ll be okay.”

Thorin rolls onto his side. Dís is now cradled to his chest. He continues whispering softly to her as he feels his own eyes closing and he struggles to keep them open. _‘I wish that I could believe that. I hope she believes them if they will help her sleep tonight.’_ Those are Thorin’s last thoughts as he falls asleep with his nose in his younger sister’s hair. She smells of fire smoke, sunlight, spring, and sweat. The scent of innocence and fear.

**-o-**

Thorin woke the next morning to warm sunlight on his face and the soft whispers of his younger siblings. Dís has not moved from the place that she fell asleep the night before. Her body heat is warm and comforting against his chest. He wants nothing more than to pull her close, curl around her, close his eyes, and have everything be okay. If everything cannot be okay then he just wants to go back to sleep. He stirs under the blankets. Dís and Frerin’s whispered conversation ceases.

“No one’s here yet,” Frerin informs his elder brother.

Thorin stretches, accepting that he will not be sleeping anymore at this time. “How long has the sun been up?”

“A few hours. The innkeeper brought some bread, wine, and honey for us.” Frerin offers a plate to his brother.

Thorin swings his feet over the edge of the bed so that he is sitting next to Dis. He takes the plate, dips the bread into the honey, and takes a bite. He sighs. His bones ache and his entire body feels heavier than normal. Some of his stiffness and soreness is bound up with the late night and walking through the woods in the dark. Thorin feels old. He feels much older than his forty years. He feels like he has aged decades in a single night.

There is a heavy knock on their door before it is roughly pushed open. Thráin, Fundin, and Irli walk into the small room. Thráin strides loudly forward to pull all of his children into a rough hug. “You’re all safe,” he whispers.

Thorin looks over his father’s shoulder to see small smiles on Fundin and Irli’s faces. He tries to peek out the door to see if anyone else is standing in the hallway. “Where are the rest?”

“They’re getting something to eat. They’ll need their strength to take supplies back so we can make repairs,” Thráin tells his eldest.

“Is amâd with them?” Dís pipes in, turning her blue eyes upwards to meet her father’s hazel eyes.

“She’s with you,” Thráin says with puzzlement in his voice.

“She turned back,” Thorin says quietly, the cold knot has returned to the pit of his stomach. The small amount of bread and wine that he had consumed twists uncomfortably in his belly. “I couldn’t make her stay with us. She said that she had to make sure that you were okay.”

Thráin just stares at his son. “I never saw her after I sent you away.”

Thorin swallows forcefully. “She’s not with us.”

“She must still be in the woods, or maybe we just missed her before we left. Many of the women and children are still there,” Thráin says quickly. “That has to be it, we just missed each other.”

“Adâd . . .” Thorin begins but his father turns his back and quickly exits the small room. Thorin drops his eyes. He feels blood spreading through his face. His skin feels like it’s burning with shame. He has let his father down yet again. This was the most important thing that he was ever told to do and he had failed. His mother was missing. He cannot help but feel that something is wrong. That they will not find her safe and sound. He fears things but he hopes that his fears will not be true. He hopes that it is just the irrational fear of a night full of horrors and little sleep.

Frerin swings his arm of Thorin’s shoulders. He offers support and strength to his brother who is obviously struggling. Dís looks up at him and their blue eyes become locked together. His eyes are hard, blue, and determined against Dís’ soft blues that are full of innocence and fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subscriptions, kudos, and reviews are always appreciated. I love getting your reviews; even one review makes my day
> 
> I have a question for all of you. I have two things that I could have happen next. I want your opinion of what you want. I'll try to put this in a way that does not give too much, if anything, away. Something is going to happen in the next chapter(s) it can either be incredibly painful but short or a little less painful (marginally) and more drawn out. Let me know via reviews!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The decision was left up to me as reviews containing opinions of how this should go were not received. The original outline has this over quickly… but I’ve opted to drag it out now. Show some character development, relationships, and all of that jazz.
> 
> I might have a problem… I consumed 15 or more cups (cup = 6 fluid ounces) while writing this chapter. It was written in one sitting so I’m pretty sure that I have overdosed on caffeine. Remind me to never do that again. O_O I apologize for any typos.

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Thorin shrugs out from under his brother's arm almost as soon as the weight settles over his shoulders. He turns quickly and grabs his sword belt. He buckles it on as he shoves his feet into his boots. His face twists into a dark expression.

"Thorin?"

Thorin ignores his brother's voice as he checks to make sure that he has all of his handful of belongings. He quickly checks over his belt and the bed so as to not leave anything behind. He wants nothing more than to never see this room again. He _needs_ to do something.

“Thorin?” Frerin is blocking the door as he watches his elder brother with wary eyes. “What are you doing?”

Thorin ignores his brother. “Move,” he demands, not meeting his brother’s eyes. When Frerin does not move or respond Thorin shoves his way around his brother. He nearly knocks the younger dwarf down with his shoulder and he forces his way from the room.

Frerin seizes Thorin’s right wrist as he shoves past.

Thorin hisses in pain, but stops.

“Where are you going?” Frerin demands.

“Let go of me,” Thorin hisses through his teeth.

Frerin’s grip tightens. “Where?” Frerin demands, his voice tight and controlled. His brown eyes flashing.

Thorin groans as his brother’s fingers dig into the damaged tendons in his wrist. “Anywhere but here, dear brother,” he growls. A flush is rising to his cheeks as his emotions rise. “Now let go.”

“At least wait for me to come with you,” Frerin says with a whine in his voice. He does loosen his grip on his brother’s wounded wrist.

“Why?” Thorin does not try to free his hand. The light pressure of his brother’s hand intensifies the ache and he does not want to increase that pressure.

“Well, for starters, you cannot fight very well with your wrist like this.”

Blue eyes meet brown. “Fine,” Thorin huffs exasperatedly.

Frerin, having slept with all of his clothing on including his boots, has nothing to grabs simultaneously releases his brother and shoves him out the door.

Dis stares after her brothers before running after them.

The hallway dead ends into the common room. Last night the rough tables and benches had been only half full at best. Dour faced men had filled the tables as they talked quietly over their cups. They had looked up when the three young dwarves walked in, but other than a few glances no more attention was paid to them. It was midday now and the only man in sight was the owner of the establishment. The benches and tables were crammed with dwarves and plates of food.

Thorin pauses. If he leaves alone without the rest of the company he will be in error. Rather than face his father’s wrath for behaving recklessly he squeeze himself onto the bench opposite of Írlí, Fundin, and Lörwid. Frerin shoves against Thorin; forcing the elder to scoot over to allow his brother to sit down.

“How was it?” Thorin asked looking at Írlí.

“It was alright, lad, nothing too exciting.”

“Did we lose anybody?”

Fundin interrupted before Írlí could speak. “Aye, we did. Your father will have more to say about that in a bit.”

Thorin frowns at Thrór’s captain of the guard. He briefly considers pressing the issue. But when he sees the hardened expression on Fundin’s face he quickly reconsiders and closes his mouth.

Frerin pushes a glass into Thorin’s hands as a small girl with brown hair hands him two cups that are brimming with what looks like wine. Thorin scowls into the cup of wine before downing it in a quick swig. He taps his foot while scowling around the room looking for his father and grandfather.

Thorin grunts when Frerin elbows him hard in the ribs. “Sit still,” Frerin hisses. “You’re shaking the entire bench.”

“Then make adâd hurry up with his breakfast,” he hisses back and shoulders his brother almost off the bench.

“Boys,” Fundin says. There is a note of warning in his voice as he stares at the princes.

Thorin shoots one more glare at his brother before he sits still.

**-O-**

Less than an hour later they are loading up a wagon full of building supplies. Thorin is carrying a stack of rough lumber with Frerin. It is awkward with Thorin’s injured wrist but they manage albeit clumsily. Dís is following her brothers; she is only one step behind. Thorin is walking backwards and looking over his shoulder to watch where he is going. He almost trips over Dís for the third time during this process. “Mahal! Dís, will you just go sit down until we’re leaving?” Thorin growls once he regains he balance.

“But…” Dís follows her brother to the wagon.

“But what?” Thorin demands as he and Frerin struggle loading the wood into the wagon.

“I want to go back. Now.”

Thorin turns to face his sister. “I know, little one, I know,” he says rubbing her hair roughly. “I’m ready to go as well.”

Dís pouts. “Can we go, please?”

“I wish we could, but we have to wait until grandfather says that it’s time for us to go.”

Dís turns from her brother with a serious expression on her face and runs off. Thorin frowns as his sister runs up to their father and grandfather and tugs on her father’s sleeve. She speaks to her father who turns to look at his sons before facing his daughter again.

Dís return and smiles at her brothers. “We’re leaving now,” she tells him smugly.

Thorin rolls his eyes before lifting her into the wagon.

**-O-**

The trip back through the woods by the road seems to take much longer than the walk in the dark the night before. Thorin walks behind his father and grandfather. He absentmindedly listens to their conversation.

“Will you tell me about last night now?” Thorin asks turning to Fundin.

“I suppose . . .” the captain says looking at his commander. “They came out of nowhere. The guards did not see them until they were almost into the town and by then it was too late.”

Frerin shoves his way in between Thorin and Írlí so that he can hear Fundin’s tale as well. Thorin quickly glances behind to make sure that Dís is still in the wagon. Frerin is almost grown but Dís is still far too young to hear what this story will surely contain. It will only increase her worry for her mother’s safety. If her nightmares were not already going to reappear hearing about the raid would guarantee their return.

Dís is curled up on the bench of the wagon next to Lörwid and another dwarf. She appears to be sleeping. When he is sure that she is not going to eavesdrop he turns back to Fundin.

“ . . . They set fire to the first homes they came across. Luckily no one was injured in those fires but the buildings were destroyed. Several were injured in the fighting that came afterwards. Many of the injuries were minor, but some are critical,” Fundin continues softly. “We have had to spend much of the money that we had saved up on these supplies that we need to rebuild and care for the injured. Money that we could not afford to spend. We left when it was still too dark to see the extent of the damage. We managed to turn them away, it was a small pack, maybe fifty or so orcs, but the damage was done.”

“We fought some!” Frerin says excitedly.

“What?!” Thráin says as he whirls around to face his son’s at Frerin’s words.

Frerin blushes. “Four followed us into the woods. We took care of them though. None of us got hurt,” Frerin says quickly. “Thorin got two of them, amâd killed one, and I took care of the last one,” he finished proudly.

“Hmmm . . . that was well done,” he says before turning and returning to the front.

**-O-**

It is early afternoon before the trees break and Thorin can see their small village. He exhales a breath that he had not realized that he had been holding when he sees that their home is still standing with no discernable damage. Most of the homes still stand strong, but there are those that are lost to fire and ash.

The fires have been put out but the scent of smoke lingers in the air. Ash floats on the breeze. Together they give the illusion of continued destruction. A destruction that is all too familiar to the dwarves of Erebor. Fire and ash carried on a breeze. Today, it makes no difference that the wind that carries ash today is gentle and full of the promise of summer. The breeze brought to the forefront of Thorin’s mind is one much harsher that; a wind that put ash in the air that carried for days and for miles. Thorin shudders at his memories.

           

**2770 Third Age, Spring – Erebor**

_Thorin opens his eyes to the sunlight. For a few moments he does not remember why he is sleeping the ground. He rubs his eyes and he sits up; his father’s arm falls off his body as he sits up. He looks around the small camp. His mother is sitting by the fire with Fundin’s two young sons. Thorin look at Balin who is leaning against Frís as she rubs his hair. She is speaking softly to him. Thorin watches his mother comfort his younger cousins._

_Thorin feels his heart drop in his chest. He wants nothing more than to push Balin out of the way and rest his head in his mother lap. He closes his eyes before laying down again. He curls his legs up to his chest and pulls the blankets close around his shoulders. He remembers yesterday. He remember the wings like a hurricane. Thorin pulls the blanket over his face to hide the tears that fall from his eyes._

_He had not noticed it at first but now he can smell it. There is smoke on the breeze. Dragon fire. His blood runs cold as he remembers the red leviathan. The smoke means that the dragon fire has burned through the night and that more destruction has taken place. Thorin rolls over to face Thráin and he curls against his father’s warm chest. He is glad for the small comfort that this offers him. He feels safe here. Safe and warm. He is thankful for this constant._

_Thorin closes his eyes and tries to sleep again. To retreat to the warm world where everything is still okay. The return to his dreams of soft bed in his stone chambers; where the entire world is shut out by the stone halls of Erebor. Those stone halls shield the dwarves from unfriendly eyes. He sighs. Those halls are no longer home, ‘_ We have no home.’

 

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Thorin fights down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat at the smell of smoke. Normally he is fine but on such a large scale in brings back the memories of the days of the dragon. _‘We still have a home here,’_ Thorin sternly reminds himself. _‘We are not destroyed.’_

            He hops down from the wagon he was riding on next to his siblings. He feels Frerin’s eyes on him, but he does not turn to reassure his brother. Desire burns in him to see his father’s people. To assure himself that everyone is still okay. Mostly he hopes that he encounters his mother. She will surely be with those who are injured or with the children.

            Thorin watches the grass under his feet and pretends that he does not see the pits where arrows fell the night before. He ignores the splashes of blood that are stark against the green grass and the exterior walls of their homes and buildings. The fires never touched this side of the community. Their home is nestled among these other untouched homes. Thorin pauses in front of the door to his home. The door is still ajar from the night before. He sees the hem of Dís’ dress caught on a bush only feet from him.

            Thorin pushes the door of his home open. He half-expected to see his mother seated on the couch – knitting – she would look up at him and smile. He found what he knew would be there. The great room was dark and chilled. The fire had never been relit and the coals were cold. Frís’ knitting lay where it had fallen the night before. Thorin carefully picks it up and winds the yarn around the ball and places it in the basket with the rest of his mother’s yarn. He can tell that no one had returned to the home since they had snuck out in darkness.

            Thorin sighs heavily. He had hoped that it would be this easy. Rather, it is time to see the rest of their village. He want to see how everyone faired but he would prefer to see his mother before he is _Prince Thorin_ to people again. He knows that today of all days he will be looked to for guidance.

            The forge and Írlí’s home are located on the eastern edge of the village. Frís is fond of Írlí’s two young children, Dærí and Vrílí. Mæra looked after Fundin’s son’s Dwalin and Balin since they no longer had a mother of their own. If Thorin was going to start his search and inspection anywhere then it made sense to start there.

**-O-**

Thorin returns to their home several hours when it was well after nightfall. He had spent most of it helping Mæra repair the damage that had fallen upon the homes around hers. Írlí and Fundin spent much of the day patching holes in the sides of buildings and using a plane to clean memories of the night before off of their homes.

There are two guards now posted outside the door. There are guards standing everywhere. Last night had caught all of them unawares and Thrór was going to make sure that that never happened again. All males who were of their maturity were put into a rotation system of who was to stand guard at what times and where they were to be. No one had stood guard since the year right after the dragon. Thorin was due to stand at dusk on the northern edge of the town. The other plans were being implemented as well to fortify this community; to preserve all that was left of Erebor.

 Thráin is seated at the table; his head rest on the table with his arms crossed in front of him. Thorin breaths deeply before stepping through the door. “Adâd?”

Thráin raises his head to look at his eldest. Thorin looks away – ashamed – when he sees the moisture and sadness that are in his father’s eyes. “I . . .” Thorin begins to say only to be interrupted by his father.

“You haven’t found her.” Thráin’s voice is hoarse and soft.

Thorin bows his head. “That is correct, adâd.”

“There’s nothing for it then,” Thráin say while rising to his feet, “we’ll organize a search party and leave in the morning.”

“We should leave now,” Thorin argues. “The sooner we start covering ground the better.”

Thráin repeats himself, “We’ll leave in the morning. It’s already dark, we won’t make much progress if we manage to make any at all.”

Thorin scowls. Another night of doing nothing and feeling useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t really like this chapter, it was hard for me to write. It feels disjointed but it was needed to progress in the story.
> 
> I have a question for all of you. I have two things that I could have happen next. I want your opinion of what you would like to see. I'll try to put this in a way that does not give too much, if anything, away. Something is going to happen in the next chapter(s) it can either be incredibly painful but short or a little less painful (marginally) and more drawn out. Let me know via reviews! 
> 
> Pronunciation Guide for my OCs:  
> Lörwid – pron. LUH•wid  
> Frís – freese (rhymes with freeze)  
> Írlí – EER•lee (rhymes with eerie)  
> Mæra – mah•rah  
> Dærí – DAH•ree  
> Vrílí – VREE•lee (rhymes with freely)  
> Ulįr – YOU-leer (Frís’ father)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -Thorin begins speaking angrily, “We shouldn’t still be here. We should be far away from here! We should not just be standing guard,” the prince fumes. “My mother is out there somewhere. Why aren’t we looking for her?!”- . . . -Thorin had never used his authority and this was unexpected. Írlí releases his prince’s arm. “You’re right, melhekhul rayadûn.” Írlí says, bowing his head. “I cannot command you.”-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was meant to cover a lot more ground in the way of time and the plot, but Írlí and Thorin’s relationship just kept begging to be developed. Írlí’s connection to the royal family will be important later.
> 
> There is some fluff. Enjoy!

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Thorin was pulled from his sleep by a rough hand gripping his shoulder. He startles violently and almost falls out of his bed. A shadowy figure stands over with a candle. Thorin’s half-awake mind jumps immediately to fear. He reaches for the knife he keeps under his mattress. A large hand snakes out and grabs his wrist to stop his movement. He gasps as the pain rockets him forward in wakefulness. “Wha . . .?”

“It’s your watch, laddie,” Fundin whispers in his heavy voice.  

Thorin nods his head. “Allrightgivemeamoment,” he mumbles, swinging his feet to the floor. He rolls his shoulders and head in an attempt to shake off the tiredness that clings to his body. He glances around the room that is illuminated by the flickering candle that Fundin left on the table by his bed. Frerin moves roughly pulling a blanket over his head to block out the minor light of the candle. His bronze hair sticks out from the top of the blanket and he makes a discontented noise in his throat. Thorin scrubs his face with his hands before pulling his boots on.

He almost falls down the stairs in his half-awake state. Fundin stands in the center of the great room talking softly with Thráin. Thorin notices with interest that his grandfather is stretched out on the other couch with his arm over his eyes. He is equally surprised that his father is still awake and looks like he still has not gone to bed.

“I’ll walk you to your post,” Fundin says turning to face the young dwarf.

“There’s no need. Just tell me where it is and I’ll find it,” Thorin says, rubbing at his eyes.

“No one’s to go anywhere alone. It’s just a precaution,” Fundin says reassuringly. “Your partner is already there and waiting.”

Outside Thorin could see small fires ringing the perimeter. Shadows of the dwarves stationed at each one were visible. He was used to dark shadows at night. This excess light fills the village with tension and worry. They were repairing and they were healing, but the tension would last long after the physical markers of the raid were gone.

Írlí and a black-haired dwarf that Thorin cannot place are talking softly to one another by the fire. When Thorin and Fundin step into the ring of firelight the unfamiliar dwarf rises to his feet to great the newcomers. “I wish you two an easy watch,” he says looking at Írlí and Thorin. “For now I will seek by bed and sleep.”

“I’ll walk with you, Kaïz,” Fundin says.

The two older dwarves disappear almost as soon as they leave the ring of firelight. Thorin turns to the older man. “It’s been a quiet night then?” he asks as he settles himself on a log.

“Yes, from everything that I have heard,” Írlí responds, “but that is not much. I do hope it remains quiet.” Írlí looks at his young assistant when he finishes speaking. He looks at Thorin who does not respond with anything more than a grunt of acknowledgement. His gaze lingers on Thorin’s right hand; the dominant that that was not using to adjust the fire with a stick.

“Has anyone bandaged or even looked at your wrist?” Írlí asks with concern.

Thorin glances down at his hand. The bruising has spread and the swelling has increased. It pressed painfully against the vambraces he was wearing over his forearms to help support the injured wrist. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles sleepily, “I’ll be fine.”

“That doesn't answer my question, boyo,” Írlí tells the younger man good-naturedly.

Thorin scowls and looks up from the fire. He glares over at the older dwarf who is lounging lazily on the ground on the opposite side of the fire. “No, no one has looked at it,” he replies sullenly. He knows that Írlí will push him until he has an answer that he deems to be satisfactory. All Thorin wants to do is to sleep or to return to his thoughts.

            Írlí pushes himself into a sitting position before rising over to squat down in front of Thorin. “Let me see it then. You’ll need it to heal as quickly as possible if you’re going to be any use to anybody.”

“I told you . . . I’m fine.” Thorin looks to the side in order to avoid meeting Írlí’s blue eyes.

Írlí rolls his eyes. He grabs Thorin’s chin and makes the young dwarf look at him. “Let me look at your wrist,” he says firmly.

“It’ll need ice,” Thorin protests. “We do not have any of that here.”

“My wife should be here momentarily. She promised me some food. I’ll send her for ice.”

Almost as soon as Írlí finishes speaking Mæra steps into the clearing. She is accompanied by her and Írlí’s son, Vrílí, to conform to the new mandate that no one goes anywhere on their own. Írlí rises to his feet. He hugs and kisses his wife on the cheek and ruffles his son’s short blonde hair. They speak quietly as she hands him a small package wrapped in a paper.

“Would you be a dear and get me a few bandages and some ice? A few small splints would be helpful as well. If you don’t have any its fine; there’s no need to bother Lörwid.”

Mæra kissed her husband lightly, “We’ll be back quickly.” She flashes a small smile in Thorin’s direction.

“Very nice,” Thorin mumbles to his friend in response to the physical display of affection.

Írlí grins at his young counterpart. He stares up into the clear night sky with his hands on his hips for several long moments. A wide grin spreads across the dwarf’s broad, friendly face. “My little boy, he’s growing up so fast,” Írlí says proudly.

Thorin just nods his head in response. Mæra and the aforementioned boy, Vrílí, reappeared at that moment.

“Everything you asked for is here,” Mæra says handing her husband a bucket. “Make sure you eat that sandwich. I’ll be insulted if you don’t,” she teases gently.

“I would never not eat the food you make for me,” he replies just as gently.

Thorin scowls into his lap. The exchange serves to remind him about conversations his mother and father often have. It serves to remind him about something that he has not forgotten but has been trying not think about. It serves to remind him that his mother is still missing. His mother is missing and he is sitting here by a warm fire with Írlí _keeping watch_ of all things.

“Alright, lad, let me see that hand of yours,” Írlí demands; squatting down next to Thorin.

Thorin gives his blonde companion a dark look before holding his arm out. Írlí looks at him and makes eye contact before starting to unlace dark-haired dwarf’s vambrace. Thorin winces as the tight leather is removed. He tightens his muscles and grits his teeth as his shirtsleeve is rolled up to reveal the entirety of his forearm.

The smith lets out a low whistle when he sees the extent of the damage. “Impressive. How did you manage this one?” Írlí asks, cocking an eyebrow as the younger dwarf.

“Fell,” Thorin replies shortly through his teeth.

“From a tree?” Írlí asks skeptically.

Thorin grunts in response to avoid giving a real answer.

A half-smile crosses Írlí’s face before ordering, “Put your hand in here.” He hands the young prince the bucket that is filled with ice from the ice shed where it had been packed in straw and sawdust to keep it from melting.

Thorin does as he is instructed. While he is prepared to the cold of the ice he still lets out a gasp as the ice chills his fingers and forearm. “It’s cold,” he grunts by way of an explanation.

“It’s supposed to be. We need to bring that swelling down before I splint it and bind it to prevent you from further abusing your poor joint,” he chides cheerfully.

Thorin frowns and tries to flex his fist in the ice.

Half of a mark later – the ice is more than half melted by this point – Thorin takes his hand out of the bucket. Írlí tsks when he sees how much the swelling has been affected by the ice. “Eh . . . its better, but the swelling isn't down as much as I hoped that it would be.” He reaches for the splints and bandages.

“Do you have to splint it?” Thorin inquires. “I like having _some_ use of that hand. It might not be much use, but I can use it for small things.”

“I know. However, if I don’t split it you will keep using it and it will take longer to heal that way.” He chuckles at the annoyed expression on the prince’s face. “I could add more splits and you could just club people over the head with your arm,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Aye, I’m sure that would be incredibly effective,” Thorin replies with a small laugh of his own.

Írlí places three splits as he begins wrapping Thorin’s wrist and hand tightly with bandages. One is placed on the top and bottom of the wrist while the last one runs from the lower thumb joint up the inside of the forearm. Thorin grins his teeth at the forced movement of his wrist. He refuses to make a sound to voice his discomfort at the position his hand is now forcefully held in.

“Is this position necessary?” Thorin inquires as his wrist is forced into the odd angle.

“You need it not to move.”

“I think I’ll just resort to clubbing people with it then. I won’t be able to use it for much else,” Thorin replies sullenly.

“Don’t use it too much and it’ll be fine before you know it. You’ll be back to terrorizing my forge sooner than I am ready for you,” Írlí says with a grin. “You can put the vambrace back on if you would like. It might help prevent any shifting of the splints; it can also provide greater stabilization of the joint.”

When the smith releases Thorin’s newly bound arm the two fall silent. There are no sounds except those of a normal, peaceful night. The wind ruffles the leaves; they rustle softly and erratically. Thorin leans back against his log, his head falls back, and he closes his eyes listening to the calls of a small owl that lives in the pines. He can hear bats swooping low over the fire, attracted to the bugs that were attracted to the bright light. He shifts to make himself more comfortable, if you can call leaning against a rough log comfortable. His breathing slowly deepens as he tries not to think about his mother or the intensified ache in his wrist. He thinks rather of Frerin and Dís. He had not seen Dís since their return. The fire is warm at his feet. His drowsiness dulls the pain. The dulling of the pain lulls him further from wakefulness and closer to sleep. He tilts a little to his side to lean against Írlí’s leg. He crosses his arms across his chest. He forces his eyes open but the urge to close them again is too great. He sinks backwards into himself and into a light, restless sleep.

He is startled violently back to full consciousness as the leg supporting his weight disappears. He sits up and stares around the fire. He sees nothing out of the ordinary in the immediate area. Thorin turns to look up at his blonde companion who is now seated a foot further away.

Írlí raises his eyebrows. “No sleeping on the job.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was just . . . resting my eyes,” Thorin responds.

Írlí grunts.

“Besides, this is stupid,” Thorin grumbles as he rises to his feet. He begins pacing. He does it to stay awake, but also to release his pent up energy. The two differing forces clash inside him making him snort and huff in frustration as he paces.

Írlí does not move or say anything. He just watched Thorin pace back and forth anxiously. He feels that the young prince looks for all the world like a trapped wolf. If he could he would be chewing at restraints with his teeth and howling at the moon. He does not speak but he suspects that Thorin will soon speak. Írlí is preparing himself for the sharp teeth that he knows he will soon see.

He has seen the lad’s sharp tongue only a few times before. Once was when Dís would not leave her elder brother’s side while he was working in the forge with hot metals. Írlí remembers that day well; it had been the first day that he had Thorin beginning the process of swords. Dís was practically hanging on her elder brother. The elder kept ordering his little sister to go sit down, “I will play with you later. It’ll be more fun than this.” She would look at her older brother with serious eyes before shaking her head violently. Thorin would sigh and return to trying to work. The girl hampered his movements, but Thorin did not lose his patience with her. He remained calm and gentle with her despite her behavior. He moved slowly so as to not overbalance his younger sister.

This continued until Dís was hanging onto Thorin’s belt and leaning backward when he turned to move a heated bar of metal from the fire to the anvil. Dís stumbled and fell against the forge. There were other bars heating and her weight as she caught herself knocked some out. One of them caught her arm on the way down. The girl had screamed when the hot metal came in contact with her skin. Thorin’s face had been white as he spun around. He had checked her arm – the burn was minor – and then he had snapped. He had yelled at her. He was fuming as he called her foolish child and a nuisance. He had forced her to leave the forge.

Írlí had never seen Thorin speak harshly to his sister in the time that the boy was working for him. That was the one and only time that he had seen Thorin speak harshly to his sister. The other times that he had seen harsh pass Thorin’s lips while in the forge was directed at the metal. He had heard all manner of curses and swears when the metal was not cooperating with the young smith’s wishes.

Thorin begins speaking angrily, “We shouldn’t still be here. We should be far away from here! We should _not_ just be standing guard,” the prince fumes. “My _mother_ is out there somewhere. Why aren't we looking for her?!”

“The king and your father are making the decisions that they believe to be the best for everyone,” Írlí says attempting to placate the younger dwarf.

“She’s his _wife_ ,” Thorin hisses. “How is finding her not what is best for her? How is that not what is best for _his_ family? Rather than looking for her I’m sitting here,” Thorin punctuates his frustration with an angry kick that sends dust and small rocks into the air and skittering across the ground. He fists his hands in his hair and drags them through to the ends before continuing, “I should be out looking for her, at the very least. I care. Frerin cares. We should be looking for her even if no one else seems to think she’s important enough to warrant much attention.” Thorin’s voice is tight; his teeth are clenched. Írlí is sure that he hears something else beyond frustration in the younger’s voice.

Írlí rises to his feet so that he is level with Thorin before he speaks. “Thráin does care about your mother. But as the heir apparent he needs to put everyone else first over his personal needs and wants,” he explains softly. “By waiting to make sure that our people are safe he is guaranteeing the more of our men will be able to join the search party for your mother. The more people that we have the more ground we can cover. More men also means that we will be able to deal with the rest of the orc pack if we catch up with them.”

“That doesn't matter!” Thorin growls. “ _I_ should be looking. I have no such obligations to anybody here.” With that Thorin turns and starts in the direction of the mountains.

“Oi!” Írlí lunges forward and grabs Thorin’s forearm. “Where are you going?”

“To find my mother.”

“You cannot,” Írlí says. “You must stay.”

“You’re not my father nor are you my king. You cannot command me,” Thorin snarls.

Írlí sees something in Thorin’s eyes that he had not seen before. There is a hint of authority that Thorin has never pressed onto anyone before. He and Írlí had always behaved as equals and companions. The lines between those who were royal and those who were not had been greatly blurred since the fall of Erebor. Thorin had never used his authority and this was unexpected. Írlí releases his prince’s arm. “You’re right, _melhekhul rayadûn._ _”_ Írlí says, bowing his head. “I cannot command you.” He pauses and looks into Thorin’s stormy blue eyes, “But, I can ask you as a friend to wait. If you will wait for me then I will go with you, but I will not defy your father or my king.”

Thorin does not respond. His eyes narrow dangerously before they soften. “I will wait.”

Irlí nods and turns to walk back to the fire.

“And, Irlí . . .” Thorin begins.

Írlí turns back to face the younger dwarf.

“. . . Thank you.”

“Don’t fash yourself, laddie,” Írlí says companionably having decided to brush off Thorin’s aggressive outburst. “I know that this is stressful. We’ll be going soon, too, if I’m not mistaken,” Írlí gestures to the sky before sitting down.

Thorin turns to face the sky. The black is fading to a deep purple with hints of gold and orange spreading upwards. Dawn has come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! I am on spring break so you might get another chapter before the week is out. 
> 
> I’m planning on going with the fast and painful approach – just rip it off like a Band-Aid – as that was what was originally in my outline. Opinions for or against that are still welcome.
> 
> I live on your comments! They encourage me to update more often!
> 
> melhekhul rayadûn means ‘royal male heir’ vs melhekhaz rayadûn which is ‘the king’s heir’ (aka heir apparent – Thráin)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small smile crosses Thorin’s face. Something normal. Frerin might get up early in the morning but he was by no means pleasant company soon after waking. “Normal . . .” A frown tugs at the corners of his smile. Thorin banishes it firmly. He needs some time where he is not thinking up all the terrible things that have likely happened to his mother. He cannot hold onto hope with those horrible thoughts running through his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapters is a bit late and a bit shorter than normal. If I didn’t stop where I did then this chapters would be more than twice as long.

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Dawn has come. Thorin knows that his father cannot delay the search any longer. All of the supplies needed for the extensive repairs are present and anything that cannot wait was begun with instructions placed with those that would complete the jobs. Nothing more could be said to delay the search. Not even the fog that had risen up over the early hours of the morning. It was thick, but not think enough to make it impossible to see. Fog in the mornings here in the foothills of the Misty Mountains could often be so thick that one could not see from one house to the next.

Thorin kicks the dirt with his boots as they walk to the center of town. The toes of his boot dig into the ground and he stumbles. He casts a glance at Írlí who is walking a few paces ahead of him. The center of the small town is surrounded by the businesses that have sprung up among those who live there. A tailor, the forge, a tavern are represented among others. They ring around a large grassy square where children often play in the trees or chasing after one another. Today, however, there is no laughing and squealing of young dwarflings as they hide, duck, and run among the oak and maple trees. Today the fog obscured the buildings on the other side of the square. There trees loom up out of the fog. Their branches disappear upwards into the mist. Thorin feels like he is confined in by the four walls of a building even though he is the open space of the outdoors. He has spent far too much time not living in halls of stone to feel entirely comfortable with the crushing pressure of small spaces. At least the halls of Erebor were sweeping halls of stone. Their spaces were not confining; they were open and welcoming.

Today, the mood is much more serious. A group of men are gathered just outside of the tavern. Thorin immediately spots his father and Frerin. His father is speaking quietly with some of the others. Frerin is hanging back and watching the proceedings as he props himself up against the wall. He looks for all the world as if he was just dragged out of his nice warm bed. His bronze hair is unkempt and is sticking every which way. Thorin brushes past the others to stand next to his brother. Frerin does not acknowledge Thorin’s presence. His heavy eyelids droop over his hazel eyes and his chin rests against his chest.

“Frerin?”

Frerin grunts in response but his eyes open wide enough for his irises to be seen.

“Sleep well?”

Frerin makes a discontented noise in the back of this throat and grumbles before closing his eyes again.

A small smile crosses Thorin’s face. Something normal. Frerin might get up early in the morning but he was by no means pleasant company soon after waking. _“Normal . . .”_ A frown tugs at the corners of his smile. Thorin banishes it firmly. He needs some time where he is not thinking up all the terrible things that have likely happened to his mother. He cannot hold onto hope with those horrible thoughts running through his mind.

“I’ll fix your hair if you’d like,” Thorin offers before adding a tease, “So you don’t look like something a warg dragged in.”

Frerin’s eyes open again to look at his brother. “Because you look so good yourself, sunshine,” he says bitingly, but a smile of his own tries to spread across his face. He unceremoniously flops down to straddle a nearby bench.

Thorin sits down behind his younger brother facing the broad expanse of Frerin’s slouched back. “Lean back a bit, would you?”

Frerin made a grumbling sound in his throat but he complies. His head is leaning against his elder brother’s chest. Thorin works his fingers through the copper hair. He gently works out the knots that formed when one often tosses and turns in their sleep. Thorin ignores those around them as he straightens his brother’s hair. The contented sigh that comes from Frerin is all the approval he wants at the moment. All of Thorin’s prior anger is forgotten in performing this simple task that pleases his brother. He almost worries that Frerin will fall asleep on him.

Frís often would liken her youngest son to a cat. He could sleep at anytime and anywhere, but he most preferred sleeping where there was warm sunshine and someone’s fingers in his hair. Before the sacking of Erebor their mother had kept several cats. Her excuse was that they helped keep mice and other rodents away. However, her cats seemed much too content to sleep on Thorin’s bed for them to be much help with pest control. Since the fall of Erebor it was never feasible for them to have another pet. Money that could be spent feeding the three hungry children could not be spent to feed something that’s only value was warmth and comfort. Thorin’s worries were confirmed when he heard soft snores coming from his brother.

**-O-**

They had left shortly after Frerin had fallen asleep on his brother. They have a small cart being pulled by pony. There were enough supplies for them to be gone for several days. Hopefully, this mission would not any longer than that or else they would have to turn back to get more supplies and equip themselves for a much more arduous quest. No one mentioned the reason that they had the cart rather than just carrying the supplies in packs.

They were hiking north – following the spine of the mountains. The orcs could have come from anywhere, but their entry into the town and their tracks after leaving suggested that the devil’s spawn had come from Moria of all places. Frís’ path had been hard to follow. They had not found any trace of her between the men’s settlement and their own village. They could only assume that she had been taken by the orcs. None of them discussed what this might mean; they all knew what it might mean.

Thorin and Frerin walked at the back of the company. Their father led the company with Fundin at his side. They bring up the rear which gives the two brother’ time alone together. Neither speaks. They simply walk side-by-side, shoulder to shoulder. Frerin yawn occasionally. Thorin feels anger twinge in his chest. _‘How can he be_ so _tired when he did not even have a watch shift? No one rudely disturbed his sleep until the sun was risen.’_

Thorin foul mood from early that morning had returned as the fog deepened. The sun had disappeared behind grey clouds of light rain. The fog rising from the ground along with the mist of the rain made it difficult to see far beyond the edges of their small company. It muffled all sound. At every sound or every perceived sound Thorin’s skin would prickle. He was on edge and jumpy.

Írlí, Kaïz, and others were walking parallel to the track that they were following to make sure they did not miss something just because it was a few feet away. Thorin was irritated because something could be only five feet away from them and they would never know it because it would remain hidden in the fog.

Thorin is tense. His undershirt is damp from the cool mist and his own nervous sweat. He shivers in his damp clothing. The long leather jerkin protects him from the chilled breeze, but it does not do much for him in the way of warmth. His entire body feels cool and clammy except for his right wrist. His wrist feels uncomfortably warm under the splint and bandages. It is warm and it aches. This only adds to the prince’s irritation and annoyance.

Thorin and Frerin walk shoulder to shoulder. Frerin is not nearly as grumpy as his elder brother but he is still fidgeting nervously. He pops his knuckles periodically to Thorin’s annoyance. With the heavy cloud cover it was impossible to see the sun to judge how long they had been walking – almost blindly – north. Thorin is sure that it has been several hours at least; it should be time for lunch at the least. No one else in the somber column are showing any indications of stopping for a midday meal.

“Should one of us ask adâd if we are stopping for lunch?” Thorin asks his brother.

“We could, but he doesn’t look he wants to stop.” Frerin gestured ahead to where their father was. He was several passes in front of anyone else and showed no slacking in his pace.

Thorin grunts in response.

Frerin pops the knuckles on one hand.

“Will you _please_ not do that?” Thorin snaps angrily at his younger brother.

“Stop what?” Frerin asks. He looks at his elder brother with wide eyes. He pops another knuckle.

“That!” Thorin half shouts in exasperation.

“Oh . . .”

“Yeah, that. It’s really annoying.”

Frerin’s eyes narrow as he looks at Thorin. He is just as annoyed by the weather and his lack of sleep. He spent most of his night tossing and turning in his bed. He slept in a fitful light doze if he slept at all. He had spent the first half of his time in bed listening to the deep breathing of his brother who was sleeping deeply. “Not even half as annoying as your voice.”

Anger flashes on each of their faces. “I just asked you to stop.”

“You’re breathing too loudly. Can you stop doing that?” Frerin asks loudly as he turns to look at the elder.

Thorin shoves his shoulder into Frerin’s causing the younger dwarf to stumble sideways.

**.m.**

Fundin follows closely behind his commander. He understands the punishing pace that Thráin is setting. If he could have he would have searched for his own wife following that attack of Smaug, but there was no hope that day. Today there was some hope, but not much, he knew that, but he does not know if Thráin knows the same. If he refuses to accept that then Fundin will not be the first to press the issue.

The column proceeds silently. No one is in the mood for songs or happy chatter. He can hear small conversations between dwarves who were talking quietly to those who were walking right next to one another. Then there are raised voices that carry forwards from the back of the column. Fundin turns to see Thráin’s sons arguing. He turns forward to face his commander. Thráin half turns to face the dwarf who has been his closest companion. He frowns as he eyes land on his sons, sadness fills his eyes before looking down. He turns back to face the mist in front of him.

Fundin watches the dark head in front of him for a moment before turning to walk to the back of the column. The two are still arguing when he falls in behind them. He rolls his eyes. The two are arguing today of all days about something incredibly stupid. He reaches forward and grabs their shoulders and shoves them apart to step in between the quarreling brothers.

“Hey!” They protest together.

“Why are you fighting?” Fundin demands of the two.

Frerin’s eyes darken as he looks at his brother. Neither of them answer Fundin’s question. Fundin seizes their shoulders with his large hands. “Nothing then? Aye, boys?” He looks between the two of them. “Then stop!” He shakes them. “Your father does not need this today. Nobody needs this today. If you two are going to act like dwarflings who still cling to their mother’s skirts and drink from her teats then you can be sent back to be under Mæra’s watch with my two bairns.”

He stares into their faces when he finishes speaking. Both have the presence of mind to look ashamed.

“Will you tell adâd that we’re sorry?” Frerin asks hopefully.

A smile tugs at the corner of Fundin’s mouth. “You can do that yourself. We’ll be stopping for the night in a bit. I’ll make your father stop. If it was up to him then he would keep going through the night. He needs rest even if he does not sleep again.

“But for now, you,” he grabs Thorin’s shoulder firmly, “are going to walk up front with us.”

“What if I . . .”

Fundin interrupts Thorin, “Up front because you’re the eldest and should be there for your father. But,” he catches each of their eyes, “also to prevent any more of your inane quarreling.”

**.m.**

Thorin followed Fundin to the front of the company. He stayed by Fundin’s side right behind his father until they stopped for the night.

“Everyone spread out; start a fire, find wood, check our surroundings. You all know what needs to be done,” Thráin shouts when they stop in a flat spot by the side of the road. The company falls out and some begin unloading the cart. They toss bedrolls and blankets into a pile on the ground. Thorin grabs two to set up a space for himself and his brother. Their last words had been an argument, but there was no way that the two of them would not be sleeping in close proximity to one another.

Others were quickly setting up their own spaces to sleep. Fundin took Kaïz to scout their surroundings to make sure that their campsite was secure. Frerin joined the others in gathering firewood while Írlí was getting the tinder lit. Everything was calm. Everyone was doing as they were supposed to and the campsite is filled with bustling activity. Thráin is seated on a fallen tree with his head in his hands. Nobody goes near their leader, they give him the space that he seems to desire.

Thorin stretches out on his bedroll and watches his father. He wants to say something, but he does not know what to say. _‘What does a son say to his father when his mother is missing?’_ Thorin rolls to his side to avoid look at his devastated father. He frowns. _‘We need to find her.’_ Thorin misses his mother greatly, but he thinks that maybe he needs her the least of everyone in the family. Dís, Frerin, and his father need her so much more than he does. He thinks that his father needs his mother most of all. He has been going through the motions of a leader, but even Frerin could see how much the prince was relying on his captain-at-arms.

_‘If we don’t find her . . . we might as well have lost both parents.’_ Worry twists Thorin’s insides. He worries for Dís. She is still so young. She is not ready to be responsible for anything. She is meant to have a carefree childhood. More carefree than the ones that Thorin and Frerin had. She was younger, she remembers less of the Dragon and the hard years that followed. Most of her memories are of Rohan and Dunland, the better years. The wandering years had slipped from her memory easily as she grew and replaced those memories with the better ones. Those years had not been kind to the dwarves of Erebor. Many left. The spent many nights sleeping on the ground. Many nights of rain soaked clothing and bedding. Miserable nights. Miserable years.

Fundin and Kaïz walk back into the camp, his face is tight and the skin around his eyes are pinched. There are a few inquiries as to what is wrong. The captain-at-arm’s tread is heavy and carries a sense of finality. The tread of doom. Fundin ignores them until he stands directly in front of Thráin. “My lord?” He says looking directly at Thráin. When their eyes meet the captain continues, “We’ve found something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got the next chapter almost finished. When I was having problems with this chapter I worked on the next one. This chapter sets up how things will be later with Fundin’s behavior towards Thorin and Frerin. I also needed some happy moments between the brothers. I hope you enjoyed that at the beginning.
> 
> If I get some nice, crunchable birdses . . . uh . . . I mean comments! Anyways, I’ll post it quickly ;) if not I’ll build up a reserve in case I get too busy with my grad classes to write for a few weeks.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At that thought a twinge of regret passes through Thráin. He had never really listened when his eldest spoke of his time at the forge. 'I do not even know how far he has progressed or if he is any good at all. I do not know if he even really enjoys the work . . .’ He had never listened. He focused all of his attention on official matters and on his dear daughter. He had trusted Frís to care for their sons. He was there for their political and physical educations but beyond that he had never really interacted with his own heirs. 'The same way that my father dealt with me,' Thráin thinks ruefully. Frís had taken care of everything. She had dealt with their ills, she had comforted their tears, and she had listened to their thoughts. And now she was gone. Now she could do none of those things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Thráin's point of view rather than Thorin's. It makes sense when it comes down to the subject of the chapter. His voice flows much better here whereas Thorin's did not.
> 
> This chapter has not been proofread/edited. I apologize for any mistakes/confusing bits. I will get around to editing the chapters at some point.

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Cold anticipation rushes through Thráin's veins. _'Something? What by Mahal’s beard does that mean?'_ His mind is spinning. He sits stone still. He sees his son's frantic movement. He sees the excitement register on his eldest son's face. Excitement that Thráin does not feel. He feels dread. He is glad that his sons have never had experience with orcs. He has. He has had great amount of exposure to the foul creatures. He spent much of his time before he was married scouting and keeping the peace in the lands surrounding the kingdom of Erebor. That was how he met Frís to begin with.

Fundin drops down to one knee in front of his commander and friend. "My lord?"

Thráin sees Thorin frown at him, exasperation marked clearly on his face with a question. Thorin does not understand; he cannot understand. He hesitates.

"Thráin?" Fundin asks softly, "cousin?"

Fundin's face is filled with things so very different than Thorin's. Fundin's eyes fill with understanding, sadness, and pity. Thráin sees his cousin's hand move forward to grasp his own but pulls it back before contact is made. Thráin does not like Fundin's face any more than his son's. Understanding he will take but pity, pity is something else entirely.

Thráin rises abruptly. "Show me."

He sees Thorin grabbing his weapons that he had removed and placed by his bedroll. "Thorin, stay here and wait for your brother to return. I will send someone back to retrieve you if you are needed."

"Adâd . . ."

Thráin interrupts his son, "Thorin." He meets his son's eyes. He sees Thorin back off from the confrontation of their gazes. The younger drops his gaze in deference.

"If you will follow me," Fundin says softly, seriously.

Thráin follows Fundin out into the trees. These trees grow thicker as they walk uphill further into the foothills of the mountains. He walks slowly with heavy tread as he follows Fundin. He hears the tread of other dwarves walking behind them. He is not surprised. The company would never allow him to go alone with only one 'guard' especially if there was a chance that orcs might be nearby.

Fundin's footsteps falter and slow and eventually come to a complete stop. Thráin stops beside his captain-of-arms before looking beyond. "Why did you . . ." he trails off when he sees why Fundin has stopped, what he meant when he said that they had come across something. Dread fills the pit of his stomach. The coldness in his veins returns and makes his legs go weak and his feet feel numb.

The only thing he sees is thick, dark hair. At first Thráin cannot force his feet too move. But then he is running forward. He almost does not feel the soft ground give beneath his knees as he drops to his knees. “Frís,” he whispers desperately, “Frís?!” His voice is thick with tears. He almost cannot speak; his tongue is heavy and his throat is thick. He feels as if he cannot breath. He groans. Her back is towards him. His hand trembles as he reaches out to grab her shoulder and roll her onto her back. He chokes on a sob when he sees her closed eyes and how pale her skin is, pale with blue tinge.

Thráin reaches forward to brush her hair back from her face. Her carefully done plaits are all mussed. _‘I’ll have to fix those for her, she’ll be peeved if anyone sees her like this,’_ he thinks absently as he runs his fingers back into her hair. He freezes and his stomach churns when he feels cool liquid on his fingertips. He swallows forcefully. He slowly pulls his hand back to touch her cheek. He pointedly ignores the bright red liquid that now marks her cheek. He cups her face is his palms and touches his forehead to hers. His chest heaves painfully. His voice cracks as his tears begin. He squeezes his eyes shut as his sobs continue painfully. “Frís,” he groans. “Oh, my beloved, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t get here in time,” he sobs brokenly into her hair. He is so disconnected from his own body that he does not notice when Thorin walks about and stands behind his shoulder for a moment before quickly turning and walking away. He chest aches as if it is about to explode and as if it is empty. A rushing sound fills his ears. He cannot think. Everything has stopped moving. His tears fall on her cold face, the blood smears when his tears roll down her face.

A muffled shouts breaks through to Thráin.

“AMÂD! AMÂD!” Frerin is screaming.

The boys did not wait at camp for someone to come for them. Thráin turns from his wife in time to see Thorin tackled his younger brother to the ground. He hears Thorin’s voice that is rough and thick with anger and grief shouting at his younger brother. “You don’t want to see her like that! She’ll never be the same to you!” He briefly watches his sons grapple on the ground. Frerin trying to stand and run to his mother with Thorin trying to pin his brother to the ground and prevent Frerin from see his mother.

Thráin turns back to his wife and goes to hold her hand only to stop short when he sees her hands. He pushes down the thoughts of how her hands came to be in such a state. He refuses to entertain those thoughts. He feels the edges of his sanity fraying as it is; he can feel that almost anything more will push him over the edge. He reaches his hand back to her face. He cannot think about Frís’ hands. She had lovely hands, he had thought that when he first met her all those years ago. Strong, steady hands that had caressed his face and cared for his children. Hands that comforted all of his ills and the tears of their children. Hands that had comforted him and disciplined their children. Hands that are now ruined.

**2745 Third Age, Fall – Erebor**

_His ears are full of Frís’ laughter. He cannot help but laugh with her even though he has no idea what she finds so funny about this moment. He was_ trying _to be romantic here and she seems to think that he is having a joke with her. “Come here, you,” he growls as he drags his new wife onto his lap. It is early fall. The leaves on the trees have just begun to turn. The couple is taking advantage of the pleasant day to be outside in the sunshine before the cold winter months set in and grip the countryside in frozen snow and ice._

_She continues laughing and covers his eyes with her hands. Thráin grabs her hands with his own. He pulls her closer so that her hands are wrapped around him. Only then does he releases her hands and places his own upon her hips. He tugs her even closer and he moves his hands further around and lower on her hips; he squeezes._

_Frís squeaks and pulls back. She punches him – not gently – in the arm. “Thráin!” she says accusingly. Her face is twisted up into a mock scowl._

_"Yes, amrâlimê?” he asks. He tries to look innocent but ruins it with a cheeky wink._

_"You cheeky bastard,” she giggles. She brings her hands up and places them on her husband’s cheeks. She buries her fingers in his thick beard. Frís pulls Thráin close by his beard. Their noses touch; she raises her eyebrows at him, ‘Amrâlimê? She tugs his beard and their lips touch._

_He wraps his arms around her, savoring her warm body next to his. Savoring the moment where they are alone in the world. Savoring the feeling of her solid, soft, warm hands on his face and in his beard._

**2746 Third Age, Spring – Erebor**

_Thráin wakes up when he hears his son crying. He never had any younger siblings; he never had any idea that babies made so much noise or cried so often. He rolls over to see if Frís is awake, but she is already up._

_Thorin sleeps in a cradle at the foot of the bed in their room. He did have his own room. He slept in there originally, but he woke up crying in the night so often that they had moved the cradle and a chair into their chambers so that they could hear him better and they would not have to move so far to comfort him in the night._

_Frís is sitting in the chair cradling the small bundle of their son. Thráin rises from bed and stands just behind her shoulder. He looks down into her arms. She is rocking their small son back and forth. All the while she is talking to him in hushed tones._

_He listens to his wife talking to their son of a moment. “Oh, I’m great hairless brute who could sleep through a land slide, am I?” he tries to ask her seriously but he cannot contain his smile._

_Frís starts, careful not to disturb the squalling child she just quieted. “Oh, I did not hear you get up.”_

_"Clearly not,” he chuckles. “How is he?”_

_"Ach, the lad was just hungry and fussy,” she says with a smile._

_He reaches down and gently rubs his son’s dark hair. Frís’ hand rests over his and squeezes his hand gently before she goes back to rubbing their son’s back, hushing him and comforting the small lad until he falls back to sleep while cradled in his mother’s strong hands._

**2760 Third Age, Summer – Erebor**

_“Frerin!” Frís shouts scolding her youngest. She had spent the last hour trying to corral her youngest son into the bathtub. The boy had been running around their apartments naked and evading capture. He liked his bath but not until he had been forced into the hot water. Her husband had only laughed at her struggles. She was sure that it was all quite comical, but she was far from amusing. The task was normally difficult, but was made all the more difficult because Thorin was aiding his younger brother and because of her swollen stomach. She was about to give birth to a third child any day now._

_Frís shakes her head in frustration. She is not sure that she is ready for a third child. Most days she feels like she can hardly handle the two she has already. “Little cretins,” she murmurs as she pulls towels down from the shelf. Frerin is standing in one spot now – the door has been shut to prevent his escape – dancing back and forth._

_“All right, into the tub with you,” she orders as she plops the towels down onto the floor._

_“No!” he shouts. Frerin does not move. He simply continues to dance in place._

_“Tub,” she says firmly as she laboriously seats herself on the floor and gets the soap and rag ready._

_Frerin scowls before he dips his big toe into the tub of warm water. He glances at his mother._

_“If you don’t get in soon then the water will be all cold. Do you want to take your bath in cold water?”_

_"No,” he scowls. He slowly climbs into the tub. He is still standing in the water when a mischievous grin passes across his impish face._

_Frís sees and recognizes that face. “Don’t you dare!” she orders. She does not know what exactly the boy is thinking of doing only that it is probably not very nice._

_Frerin hesitates. He kicks water out of the tub and onto his mother._

_As soon as Frerin began to move his mother moved as well. She seized one of his arms. She flinches back as the water hits her in the face. “Frerin!”_

_The boy shrinks back away from the hold that his mother has on his arm. He does not, however, look at all repentant for his actions._

_She smacks him firmly on his bare bottom. “That is_ not _nice!” she scolds. “You do not splash water on people He can splash your brother if you are playing a game, but you do not splash_ me _when you are getting your bath!”_

_Fat tears well up in Frerin’s hazel eyes. They are tears of shame and embarrassment not pain his mother did not spank him hard enough to cause any real pain. It was meant more to shock and startle the child._

_"Will you sit now?”_

_Frerin silently nods his head._

_“It’s alright, Frerin. You know amâd loves you, right?” she speaks to him while she begins to wash his hair. She works her fingers into his copper hair that gleams wetly in the light. She rubs the soap into his hair and scalp. Frerin starts humming and playing with one of the toys that are kept for the bath. Her fingers and hands are covered with soap suds as she hums along with her son._

**2785 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

_Thráin sits on the bench outside of their home. Frís sits next to him with Dís kneeling in front of her. The girl sits with her back to her mother. Frís is slowly working through the stubborn tangles that appear in her daughter’s hair overnight. “Do you have rats in your bed, Dís?” Frís asks. “We should take care of that. They seem to like to build their beds in your hair every night.”_

_“No . . .” Dís squirms uncomfortably. “Are you almost done, amâd? I want to go and play.”_

_"We’ll be done when I get all the knots out of your hair, dear,” Frís says gently._

_Thráin chuckles at his daughter’s groan of frustration. He watches his wife’s fingers work through the dark hair. Her golden wedding band flashes in the early morning sunlight._

**-O-**

Night lasts a really long time when there is no one to share it with. Everyone else is sleeping soundly. Frís has been wrapped in a few blankets until they can return home to bury her properly. He had insisted that her body be placed next to him because he cannot bear to be far from her. His left hand rests protectively on the blankets that wrap the remains of his beloved wife. The orc pack is clearly long gone so only one sentinel is posted. That duty falls to the lower ranking dwarves who are present. Thráin knows that he son is quite close the blacksmith Írlí, who is currently on duty, but Thráin knows very little of him.  

At that thought a twinge of regret passes through Thráin. He had never really listened when his eldest spoke of his time at the forge. _'I do not even know how far he has progressed or if he is any good at all. I do not know if he even really enjoys the work . . .’_ He had never listened.  He focused all of his attention on official matters and on his dear daughter. He had trusted Frís to care for their sons. He was there for their political and physical educations but beyond that he had never really interacted with his own heirs. _'The same way that my father dealt with me,'_ Thráin thinks ruefully. Frís had taken care of everything. She had dealt with their ills, she had comforted their tears, and she had listened to their thoughts. And now she was gone. Now she could do none of those things.

Thráin looks over to watch his sons. He had not really allowed either of them out of his line of sight since they had found his beloved. They are everything that he has left of her. She left her mark on each of their children. Children who would only be worse off for her loss.

Thorin had been her favorite. Thráin's gaze lingers on his eldest. He is surprised that he never noticed it before. But before today he had not been looking for reminders. Thorin carried his mother inside him in every way.  Out of their three children Thorin the one that resembled his mother the most. The dark almost black hair, blue eyes, proud nose, strong jawline, and heavy, serious eyebrows. The son's expressions mirror those of his mother.  His eyes lingers on his son's sleeping face. Relaxed and slack jawed he sleeps. His face is relaxed out of the grief that marked his face earlier. A grief that will return as soon as they wake and remember the day that came before. 

A cursory glance only reveals only their sleeping forms and their embrace. The two boys slept facing one another. Frerin’s head rested on Thorin’s arm and his face was nuzzled into the elder’s chest. Thorin’s injured arm was thrown protectively over his younger brother. The fingers of his good hand tangle in the wild copper hair. Copper and ebony hair mingle together beneath their heads. Thráin cannot remember the last time that he saw his children sleep like this. For his two eldest it must have been before Smaug.

**2755 Third Age, Winter – Erebor**

_He was lounging on the couch reading a book in the dying fire light. The parlor door was open but the fire kept the cold from settling in the royal family’s living quarters. Frís had gone to bed several hours before. Their youngest, Frerin, had kept her up most of the night before and had refused to sleep all day. As soon as he had fallen asleep and she had swaddled him in blankets she had sought sleep for herself. That was several hours ago. He was enjoying the silence. Absolute silence was rare in their chambers of late. Silence was never truly silent. His two children were always making noise of some sort and if they were not then it meant that they were normally up to no good._

_His feet are propped up on the other end of the couch and a woolen blanket covers his legs. Frís had tucked it around him before she went to bed. A smile crosses his face. She was always doing little things to take care of him and make sure that he was comfortable. He shifts and peers out of the door when he thinks he hears the creak of leather._

_"Frís? Is that you?” There is no response, but he swears that he can hear that slapping sound of bare feet on stone on the hallway. “Frís?” he calls again swinging his feet to the floor. Thráin rises to his feet when there is no response. Before he reaches the door he hears the creak of leather again._

_Now there is no sound again. The only sound is that of his own bare feet and the swish of cloth. First he turns to the right, to the chambers that he shares with Fris. He carefully pushes the door open. The room is illuminated by the banked coals of the fire. Frís is wrapped up in blankets with her brown hair freed from its carefully maintained braids. Nothing is amiss. His wife is soundly asleep and there are no extra bodies in the bed with her. The telltale lumps that would betray the presence of either of his sons are not present. He carefully shuts the door so as to not disturb his sleeping wife. He would never hear the end of it if he woke her up just because he was paranoid and checking on his family._

_Thráin continues down that hall and past the parlor to Thorin’s bedroom. This room is empty. The blankets on the young boy’s bed have been tossed aside and the sheets are rumpled. The room’s inhabitant is gone. Since the boy is not in bed with his mother there is one other place that he is likely to be._

_Next door is Frerin’s room. The candle on the table is sputtering and low. But it casts more than enough light for the father to see his eldest son standing by the bed where his baby brother sleeps._

_“Thorin.”_

_The little dwarf jumps at his father’s voice. He turns to gaze up at his father with a sheepish grin on his chubby face._

_“What are you doing in here, inùdoy?” Thráin squats down so that their faces are level, “Why are you not in bed asleep?”_

_“I . . .” the boy shuffled his feet, “I wanted to make sure the he wasn’t cold.”_

_Thráin chuckles and pulls his eldest son to be seated on his knee. “I think that you are the one that is cold.” He squeezes his son’s toes – toes that are as cold as the snow that covers the ground outside – as he says that last part._

_“But I’m big. He’s just so small . . .” Thorin turns his large blue eyes away from his father to look longingly at his little brother._

_“And you want to sleep with him, is that it?”_

_The small dark head snaps back to look at his father. Thorin nods his head slightly almost as if he is scared that his father will deny him._

_Thráin stands holding his eldest son in his arms. He pulls the blankets back before he places Thorin on the outer edge of the bed so that Frerin was between Thorin and the wall. “Lay down. You can sleep in here if you promise me that you will not get up again.”_

_Thorin nods his head vigorously before he shoves his feet under the covers and snuggling up to his baby brother. Thráin wraps that blankets around both of his sons; he tucks the corners around their small, warm, soft bodies. “Do not wake him. If you wake him your mother will be mighty vexed with you.”_

_The dark heads nods again before he lays it back on the pillow. Thorin wraps his body around Frerin’s; his arm wraps around his brother and pulls him close. His dark hair mixes with the younger’s wispy, fiery locks._

**2786 Third Age, Spring – Dunland**

Thráin is glad that they have found comfort in one another. However, a part of him twinges with jealousy that neither of them had turned to him. Dís would turn to him, _‘I hope.’_ He looks of into the canopy of trees. The fog from the day has cleared and cold twinkling lights are now visible through the newly grown foliage. He has no idea how his only daughter will react to the news. She had always been wildly unpredictable. The girl always did as she pleased. Thráin would always listen to his wife’s irritated rants on _his_ daughter’s misbehaviors. He was always quick to laugh even through his wife was clearly frustrated beyond belief and, often, frustrated beyond words. He cannot think of his daughter right now. This is something that he will deal with when the time comes. _‘I have no doubt that I will handle that pretty badly. I’ve handled everything else dreadfully.’_

Unable to deal with thoughts of his daughter he turns back to look at his sons. A closer look reveals the dark tear tracks the streak through the dirt on Frerin's face from his eyes down to where they disappear into the red-blooded fuzz that marks his jawline. The heavy snoring comes from tears and sorrow. He slept with his mouth open to breath properly and he has drooled on his elder brother's shirt. A wet spot has formed just under his mouth. Thorin’s face also carries tear tracks but they are less obvious as they have not cleared dirt from his cheeks. His eyebrows twitch into a frown in his sleep. He shifts closer to his brother; his hands clench tighter in the copper hair. The frown slips away as he reassures himself of his brother’s continued presence.

Thráin sits through the change of watch. He still cannot sleep. He does not want to face the dreams that he will have when he does, eventually, sleep. The sun rises, but he does not move from his post at his wife’s side. He cannot leave her alone in the dark with no one to keep her company. There is no stone to keep her safe, no stone to embrace her return into Mahal’s arms.

 

The sun rose quite a while back - it was well above the trees - but Thorin and Frerin still slept. Fundin grumbles something about waking up the _lazybones_. Thráin catches his captain's arm. "Let them sleep," he releases the soldier's arm. "They'll need it. My boys need their escape from these events." He sighs. "They'll wake soon enough."

The _melhekhaz rayadûn_ sighs tiredly. There are heavy, dark bags under his hazel eyes that are darker than Fundin has ever seen before. Thráin’s eyes are red and they ache. He rubs them in attempt to relieve the tired pressure behind his eyes. He has not slept since the attack. He has not allowed himself to sleep. Normally his father, Thrór, would be handling the brunt of the work following the orc attack. However, he was not. He was holed up in his residence _plotting_ as Thráin called it. He tries to discourage his father’s schemes and plans whenever he can. Normally a reminder of his other duties drags the king from his plans about Moria. But yesterday he would hear nothing of the needs of his people. _“It’s because of the needs of our people that we must re-claim Moria_ ,”was what he had snapped at his son when Thráin tried to drag him from his desk that was covered in maps and papers.

Thráin wishes he could escape his duties for a while. As soon as he wakes up in the morning he thinks about everything that he must do that day. Very rarely did he forget about his position and his responsibilities. Each time that he did forget it was due to his wife. She would go out of her way to draw him out of his official role and back into the role of father and husband.

“Well,” he says rising and looking at his cousin. “We should get started on our way back home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to read your comments!
> 
> melhekhaz rayadûn – ‘the king’s heir’ (aka heir apparent – Thráin)
> 
> amrâlimê – ‘love of mine’


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun has risen to its peak when the funeral begins in the high fells in the mountains above their village. Thorin and his siblings stand behind their father and grandfather. Thorin shifts uncomfortably. He cannot help but remember the last time that he wore this outfit of clothing. He was wearing the same suit of clothing that he had gotten for his maturity ceremony. That day was so much happier than today. That day feels like it happened over a lifetime away. Frís had hugged him that day and told him that she was proud of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait on this chapter! I had a 15 page final draft due and a 10 page rough draft due last weekend. There may be another delay. I have the final draft of the rough draft and another 15 page final draft due this upcoming weekend along with a presentation. We’re also getting close to the end of the plan I wrote out when I started writing, I have until chapter 16 to write more but I just want to give you a heads up about any disturbances in the regularity of updates.

**Chapter 12**

_I'm not their hero_  
But that doesn't mean that I wasn't brave  
I never walked the party line  
Doesn't mean that I was never afraid  
I'm not your hero  
But that doesn't mean we're not one and the same

**2786 Third Age, Late Spring – Dunland**

Thorin wakes up with an explosive sneeze. He pulls back to see what had tickled his nose. At first he cannot see. His vision is all blurry from sleep and his startled and unexpected awakening. He rubs his eyes furiously to clear away the fuzz and cobwebs of sleep. His vision is full of the copper and crimson of his younger brother’s hair. He becomes aware that not only was it Frerin’s hair up his nose that woke him, but Thorin is also way too warm. Frerin’s back is pressed to his chest and he is damp, sweaty, and at the same time freezing as his presence raises Thorin’s body temperature into the uncomfortable and irritable range.

His mind is only half awake and he is confused as to why he and Frerin are sleeping the same bed. He props himself up onto one elbow ready to shove Frerin out of his bed and onto the floor, his mouth is open ready to say, “Get off, Frer, you’re too hot,” but then he remembers. He remembers why they are sharing a bed. He remembers why they have pushed their bed together to make one large bed. He remembers . . . and he does not want to. They had returned home the day before. Everything was in a state of suspense, things were neither here nor there. The night before neither of the brothers could sleep alone and they no longer fit in the same bed.

Thorin flops back onto the mattress and covers his eyes with his arm. The back of his throat burns and his eyes sting. He realizes that he is on his way to crying; he tries to take deep breathes to calm himself down only to find that his throat is constricted. He opens his mouth to try and fill his lungs with air only to make a sobbing sound as he tries to breathe. He rolls away from Frerin as he feels that gasping sob turn into much more. He presses his fist to his mouth to muffle and noise that he makes. The tears begin and he can feel the sobs shake his body with growing intensity as he tries to contain his roiling emotions. He still cannot breathe. He feels as if his chest is going to explode if he does not get a lungful of air.

Thorin glances once at his sleeping brother before all but throwing himself from the bed. He pauses only to pull a shirt on before rushing down the stairs and out the front door. The sun has not yet risen, but it is close. Thorin can see the strip of growing orange above the tree line. He turns to the woods and stumbles into the deeper darkness under the trees. He falls to his hands and knees in the pre-dawn light. He digs his fingers into the moist earth beneath his fingers as the sobs return. Only this time he does not try to hold them in; he allows the wracking sbogs to control his body. They hurt; these tears hurt his entire body. They are not like the tears that are shed in anger or in shame. They are far different from the tears that come from pain. The tears burn through his entire body. The cool soil grounds him. He hangs his head; his tears roll down his cheeks and they drip off the end of his nose into the dirt by his hands.

Thorin cannot believe that his mother is gone. Today they will bury her in the fells above the town. They are going to return her to the stone that gave birth to the dwarves. He groans as the tears come to an end. His mother . . . he falls forward. His forehead rests on the ground. “Oh, amâd,” he whispers. “I should have come with you. I shouldn’t have argued with father. I could have come with you to protect you.”

Thorin shifts his weight to sit back on his heels. His head falls back. He looks up into the green canopy of leaves. The leaves are beginning to grow a deep green as the sun rises behind them. He feels the tracks that the tears left drying on his face. They are uncomfortable, but he cannot find the will to raise his hands to clean his face of his grief. Grief that consumes him. He just wants to be able to fall asleep and forget about her death. Those moments when he woke and did not remember the tragedy were the best moments he has had since they had discovered Frís’ body.

Thorin wishes that he had obeyed his father’s orders. He wishes that he had stayed in the camp. As soon as Frerin returned the followed the rest of the group, much to their regret. He had seen his mother, but she was no longer his mother. Every time he closes his eyes he sees what he wishes he had never seen. He cannot even picture her without the blue tinge of death on her skin. He feels sick when he closes his eyes. While he may forget that Frís is dead while he sleeps his dreams are not much comfort. The only comfort is Frerin’s warm living body next to his own. He is comforted that he prevented Frerin from living through those nightmares as well.

Her hands had been mangled and broken. His dreams are filled with scenarios that may have resulted in such damage. Thorin’s dreams are filled with screams and darkness. He shudders at his memories of the dreams.

The light under the trees has increased considerably since he wandered out of his front door earlier. He sighs as he pushes himself to his feet. He scrubs over his face with the sleeve of his shirt. The wind coming out of the north is cold this morning. His shirt billows out around him; it is caught in the wind. He shivers. He turns to walk back into the community that is beginning to wake up and prepare for the day’s somber and sobering events.

This time while walking through the common rooms of their home Thorin pays attention to his surroundings. He stops when he sees his father stretched out on one of the couches. Thráin’s feet stick out from under a knit blanket. His arm hangs off the couch; his fingers trail on the floor. Dís is sleeping on the floor next to the couch. Her fingers are wrapped around her father’s. Thorin feels a weight rest on his chest when he sees the tear streaks on his father’s face. They are on Dís’ face as well, but he expects to see them there.

Frís’ death has shaken Thráin to his core. That instability has shaken the small family as much as their mother’s death. Thorin has never seen his father afraid or incapable. But, yesterday, that had changed. He saw his father’s firm mask crack. Yesterday was proof that his father could be broken. That was not something that Thorin was willing to face yet. That was not something anyone in the royal family was willing to face. As long as the crack in Thráin’s composure was kept among the family things may turn out to be okay.

**-O-**

The sun has risen to its peak when the funeral begins in the high fells in the mountains above their village. Thorin and his siblings stand behind their father and grandfather. Thorin shifts uncomfortably. He cannot help but remember the last time that he wore this outfit of clothing. He was wearing the same suit of clothing that he had gotten for his maturity ceremony. That day was so much happier than today. That day feels like it happened over a lifetime away. Frís had hugged him that day and told him that she was proud of him.

The burning prickle of tears stings his eyes again. He swipes at them. _I will NOT cry. Not here, not in front of everyone. I WILL be strong for them._ Thorin is flanked by his young siblings. Dís grabbed Thorin’s hand on the walk up the mountain and she has not released it. Thorin’s palms are sweating, but he will not release his younger sister’s hand if that is what she need from him.

Thorin looks to his left where Frerin stands. The copper-haired youth stands with his back straight and his eyes dry. His face is screwed up in a grimace as he fights for control over the emotions that war over his face. Thorin frowns before he puts his arm around his brother’s shoulders. Frerin leans towards his elder brother by a small amount.

Thorin turns his eyes forward once he is sure that his siblings are taken care of. The rest of those who were attending the funeral stand behind the royal family. They all face the stone cairns and mausoleums that are arranged in orderly lines on the plateau. They stand in front of the mausoleum that has been prepared for Frís. Thrór wears a large fur cloak that hangs majestically from his shoulders. He stands at the head of Frís’ stone tomb.

The king looks out over the gather crowd with his pale blue eyes. His eyes are hard and his expression sad. He grieves, but not as much as the rest of his family. “My people, we are gathered here today to return one of our own to the stone from whence we came. Frís, daughter of Ulir, the wife of our _melhekhaz rayadûn,_ has passed from our world before her time. She returns to Mahal, the Maker, to dwell with him until the unmaking of the world. From stone we came and to stone we will return.” Thrór bows his head when he finishes speaking.

Thráin steps forward to begin the processional. Everyone will pass by Frís’ final resting place. They will all say their piece – wishing the wife, mother, and daughter – wishing her a swift return to Mahal. Thorin follows his father closely. He pauses at the head of the mausoleum. He reaches forward with a trembling hand to touch the engraving on the face of the tomb. He traces the runes absently as he holds back his tears that threaten once more.

_Frís Ulirul                                          (Frís, daughter of Ulir  
Yâsith Thráin Thrórul_                         _Wife of Thráin, son of Thrór)_

He steps past his grandfather before returning to his place behind his father. Dís still holds his hand. He squeezes her hand twice. It was something their mother had taught them. She told them that if they were ever scared and squeezed her hand she would squeeze their hand twice to tell them that she loved them.

Dís refuses to look up. She stares down at the toes of her shoes. She is wearing a dress and no one had to wrestle her into it. She has not spoken since her father broke the news to her. She has refused to look at or speak to anyone. She does not know what to say and she fears that if she does try to speak she will end up screaming. Thorin squeezes her hand again to let her know that he is there.

The procession is over with quickly, the community is small and those who were close to Frís or the royal family was even smaller. Thráin had not wanted everyone to be present during the private ceremony. Thrór returns to his spot beside his son and in front of the rest of his family. After a moment Thráin steps forward; he turns to face the crowd. Fundin stands directly behind the royal family. He brings out his wooden flute and plays a solitary note to begin a song that they all know all too well after their years of loss and wandering. Thráin begins to sing; his rich baritone covering the warm tones of the wooden flute:

_Sing me a song of a lass that is gone_  
 _Say, could that lass be you?_  
 _Merry of soul she sailed on a day_  
 _Over the sea to Aulë_  
  
_Billow and breeze, mountains and stone_  
 _Mountains of rain and sun_  
 _All that was good, all that was fair_  
 _All that was me is gone_  
  
_Loud the wind howls_  
 _loud the waves roar_

_Thunderclaps rend the air_  
 _Baffled our foes_  
 _stand by the shore_  
 _Follow they will not dare_  
  
_Sing me a song of a lass that is gone_  
 _Say, could that lass be you?_  
 _Merry of soul she sailed on a day_  
 _Over the sea to Aulë_

**-O-**

Much later that evening the entire family sits around the fire in the common room of Thráin’s home. The family is one smaller than it was at the last time that they sat here. The last time they were all together had been one of anger. Thorin regrets his actions of that night for a great number of reasons. Tonight no one is quickly bickering; no one is reading; no one is knitting. Thorin’s heart aches when he remembers that he and his mother will never sit side-by-side on the couch while she knits and he reads. The sound of the wooden knitting needles is one that he never thought he would miss; it was a noise that he had never thought he would miss. The click-clack had annoyed him on more than one occasion.

Tonight Thráin is stretched out on one of the couches. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are half closed. Thrór sits on a couch on his own, he is smoking his pipe and blowing smoke rings. The rings break apart and fill the air with hazy smoke that gives the entire room a surreal feeling.

The three siblings sit together. They are all in physical contact with one another. They seek comfort through the warm of each other’s skin and indelible aliveness. Dís is curled on her side with her head resting in Thorin’s lap. She fiddles with the hem of his tunic absently. Thorin is ignored the wet spot that he can feel growing on his thigh from her tears. His left hand rests on her side where he rubs her gently with his thumb. Frerin sits on Thorin’s other side. He is leaning against his elder brother for physical and emotional support. He has not been further than ten feet away from the elder while awake since they found their mother’s body. He seeks comfort through his brother’s physical presence. Thorin’s right arm is draped around Frerin’s neck; he holds him close. Frerin’s left hand rests on Dís’ hair. He works his fingers through her tangled hair. He slowly works out any knots that he encounters.

No one in the room has moved since they assumed their positions. No one in the room has spoken. They have sat in silence as the fire has burned low and darkness encroached on the room.

Thrór clears his throat. They all turn to look at the king even if it is just though changing the direction of their gaze.

Thráin makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat as he glares at his father.

“This is exactly why we need to reclaim, Khazad-dûm,” Thrór states quietly but firmly.

Thráin groans his displeasure. Thorin looks from his father to his grandfather. _‘Not this again . . . This caused nothing but trouble last time. It cannot possibly bring about anything good this time around.’_

“If we were living in the halls of our fathers this would never have happened,” Thrór continues. “If we were living in stone – the way we should be – Frís would still be alive.”

“Adâd, not today,” Thráin says firmly as he sits up. He plants his feet firmly on the ground. His boots thud loudly on the wooden floors.

“What better day than today?” Thrór demands. “Today would have never happened if you just listened to me.”

Thráin turns his hard hazel eyes on his father. “Today would have never happened?” he snarls sarcastically. “Today would have never happened?! But other days would have happened!” As he speaks Thráin’s voice increases in volume.

“Can you tell me that, adâd? Can you? What other days would we have? Would I be dead? How many of our people would be bury during that suicidal mission?” Thráin rises to his feet as he begins to shout. Thrór rises as well so that his son does not tower over him. “Tell me, adâd, since you are _so_ wise, would I have buried my sons? My daughter? Would Thorin be resting in stone today if I listened to you? What about Frerin? What about Dís? Hmmm? What about you or me? Would _any_ of us be left alive to enjoy those forsaken halls of the fathers?” Thráin’s face has grown red with his shouting. He steps closer to Thrór before quietly spitting out, “Tell me, oh wise father, would I be dead?”

Thrór meets his sons hazel eyes with his own icy blue ones. “None of us, inùdoy. None of us would be dead. We would be feasting in the magnificent halls of Durin. I can tell you, at the very least, that your wife would still live. She would not be dead. Your decisions killed her. Those orcs just were the means.”

Thráin’s mouth droops open at the king’s audacity. He whispers, “Get out.”

“No.”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Home,” Thráin bites out.

Thrór does not reply this time, but he does not move.

“GET OUT!” Thráin roars. He grabs his father’s arm and shoves him toward the door. “Get out! I do not want to see you anymore!” Thráin shoves Thrór up against the wall by the door; his fists are wrapped in Thrór’s tunic. He rips open the door. “Get out,” he snarls. He shoves his father and king out the door before slamming the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics for the song that Thráin sings are from Skye Boat Song, which was altered for Outlander by Bear McCreary and from the traditional Skye Boat Song. I altered some of the lyrics for the purposes of this tale. Karliene does a breathtaking rendition on YouTube if you would like to listen to it.
> 
> I did write a one-shot between this Thorin in the future as a way of unclogging the creative pipes. If you’re interested its Unexpected Cuddles.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! Any suggestions on story direction are welcome while I write out the plan for future chapters!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! UPDATE. This chapter and the next were going to be just one giant chapter, but I decided to split them up to get this update posted. I should have chapter 14 up soon then since it is all mapped out already.

**2786 Third Age, Late Spring – Dunland**

Thráin rises from the couch in front of the fire. He stretches his hands out in front of him and rolls his shoulders. He groans as he pushes himself to his feet. His joints ache with stiffness. He has been feeling his age the past several days. He knows it would be easier on his body if he would sleep in his bed rather than on the couch. He has not been able to force himself to open the door to the bedroom that he shared with his wife since they returned.

The fire has died down to smoldering and glowing coals, but they provide more than enough light for Thráin to find his way to the staircase. His dreams have been foul of late. He worried about his children continuously. He worries about them but he has no idea what to do for them. He slowly climbs the stairs. He has been checking on his children several times a night since . . . He sighs and pauses on the final step. He forces himself up that last step as his knees protest the forced movement.

The door to Dís’ room is half open so he presses it open the rest of the way. The shutters on her windows are open which allows the moonlight to pour in and fill the small room with the moon’s cool, soft light. It still takes his eyes several seconds to adjust to the change in the light. Her bed is still made up. Her blankets are carefully pulled across the mattress and her stuffed animals are arranged along the wall. Her pillow is still smooth; it is not crumpled and wrinkled from sleep. She has not slept in her bed that night and he is not surprised.

Thráin’s head drops his chin to his chest. He knows that Dís must be in with her elder brothers. In a detached way, he is glad that his children have one anther; he is glad that Frerin and Thorin are more than willing to have their little sister still hanging on their coat tails. However, in an immediate way he is upset that she has not turned to him. He would prefer that at least one of his children _needed_ him. If one of his children would stay with him during the nights. Maybe having one of his children nearby while he is sleeping would easy his worry and his sorry.

Thráin backs out of his daughter’s room and closes the door gently. In two steps, he is pushing open the door to Thorin and Frerin’s room. Their room has windows on the same side of the house as Dís’ room so their room is filled with the cold light of the moon as well. He cannot distinguish his children from one another. Right now, they resemble a pile of puppies. He sees a small foot – _‘Probably D_ ís’’ – sticking out from underneath the blankets. He sees Frerin’s bronze hair poking out from underneath the light blanket the covers the three of them.

He takes a step closer and he can see Dís’ head pillowed on Thorin’s broad chest. He can see Frerin curled towards his elder brother and around his younger sister. Her elder brothers surrounds her on all sides. Thráin knows that even if he wanted to he could not extract his daughter from her nest of brothers to return her to her own bed. He stands and watches them sleep. He listens to their even breathing and watches the gentle rise and fall of their chests. _‘They’re all safe,’_ he assures himself as he shuts the door and descends the stairs to return to his sleeping place on the couch.

**2752 Third Age, Winter – Erebor**

_Thráin has his eldest son slung over his shoulder. The dark-haired boy is giggling hysterically. The dwarfling has his hands stuck down the back of his father’s dark woolen tunic. His icy little fingers press against his father’s warm bare skin. Snow drips from the dwarflings tiny fur boots._

_“Thorin! Your fingers are cold!” Thráin scolds lightly. He looks over his shoulder at his son’s dark head._

_The dwarfling twists his head so that he can meet his father’s hazel eyes. “Can we go back in the snow, adâd?” he pleads._

_“Tomorrow,” Thráin chuckles as he continues down the hallway to his family’s private apartment._

_Thorin groans angrily in the way that only a young boy can._

_“The snow will still be there tomorrow, inùdoy,” Thráin chuckles. Soon enough your little brother will be able to join us.”_ _Frerin is a little over a year old at this point. He was still really small and Thorin is less than impressed with his younger brother._

_Thorin has been told that it will be so much fun to have a younger brother. That Frerin will be so much fun to play with, that they will be able to play all the time. So far, however, all Frerin does is sleep, eat and cry. “He’s too little,” Thorin says petulantly. “He will always be too small. He’s no fun. . . . And he takes up all of amâd’s time. She never reads me stories anymore,” he finishes sadly. “Amâd likes him more than she likes me.”_

_Thorin is swung down to the floor and his father kneels in front of him. He looks upwards at his father._

_Thráin places his hands on his young son’s thin shoulders. “Your mother loves you, Thorin. She really does.”_

_“But she’s always with my brother,” Thorin whispers sadly._

_“He needs her more.”_

_“I_ need _her,” Thorin whines._

_Thorin frowns and shuffles his feet while his father thinks._

_“Amâd does love you. Maybe she can start reading stories to you if that would make you feel better.”_

_A grin spreads across Thráin’s grim face when Thorin’s round chubby face is lit up by a wide and happy smile._

**-O-**

_Thorin is sitting cross-legged on his bed. He has his bare feet tucked beneath the edge of one of his blankets. He is trying to wait patiently, but . . . he taps the cover of the book impatiently. He had dragged the green covered book into his bedroom from the library. He had been unable to get it from the shelf that his mother kept it on so he had needed to find his father to ask for help. Frís had promised that she would be in to his room after she got Frerin to sleep and put to sleep._

_He yawns widely and pulls his favorite blanket – soft and blue – over his head and shoulders. He closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against the blanket until a large, warm hand rests on the top of his covered head. “Amâd?” He pulls the blanket down so it pools over his thin shoulders._

_“Yes, dear one. Are you ready for a story?” Frís lowers herself onto Thorin’s bed and her eldest son instantly snuggles up to her. He pushes his head under her arm that her arm is holding him close to her._

_Thorin rubs his cheek on his mother’s dress. The raised embroidery interrupting the fine, soft wool that her dress is made out of. “Yes,” he says with a smile._

_Frís picks up the green, leather bound book of stories. “Is there any story that you want tonight?” she asks looking down at the small, dark head that is pressed against her. She strokes her son’s hair absentmindedly._

_“The one about Mahal? And the seven fathers?” Thorin twists his head to look up at his mother – a look for approval – as he speaks._

_Frís smiles and flips through the pages until she lands on the story that Thorin has requested. The pages make a soft rustling sound that she – and now her son – associates with peace, safety, and comfort._

_Thorin listens as she begins to read the tale in her clear strong voice – her storytelling voice. His mother has many voices. There is the one she uses with his father, the one she uses when she in angry, the one that she uses when calming Frerin, but this voice, this voice is by far his favorite. Sometimes, before Frerin was born, she would read aloud in their main room. Thorin would sit on Frís’ lap while Thráin would quietly smoke a pipe and listen to stories that he had not heard since he himself was a dwarfling in his own mother’s lap. Frís’ voice weaves a spell around the small family; they were bound together by and through her words. When the tale was done none of them were eager to break the moment and they would sit quietly listening to the crackling of the fire and the echo of spoken words._

_A squall interrupted the weaving of this comforting bond. Thorin groans. Only one person in their quarters makes that sound. The heavy tread of boots accompanies the squalling cries of the youngest. Thráin pauses in the doorway and looks at his wife and his eldest son._

_Frerin squirms and makes discontented noises from his father’s arms. “This one,” Thráin hoists his youngest child a bit higher in his arms, “woke up and I cannot get him back down.” Frerin punctuates his father’s words by kicking his feet and an accompanying disgruntled cry._

_Frís frowns and shakes her head at her husband. “Hand him over. Maybe he’ll settle while I hold him and I can finish this story with Thorin.” As she reaches out her arms to take hold of her youngest Thorin is forced to move away from the position he held by her side. His heavy, dark eyebrows drop into a frown. He almost does not want a story anymore if he has to share the moment with his forever crying younger brother._

_Frerin stops fussing the second that he leaves his father’s arms. Frís bounces the baby. “Your father was pinching you wasn’t he,” she coos to her youngest son._

_Thráin makes a noise in his throat before exiting the room rather than commenting on his wife’s words._

_Frís settles Frerin so that his head is cradled in the crook of her arm and she holds the book open across her knees. “Where were we?” she asks Thorin as she opens her free arm to allow him to return to his previous position. Once Thorin is settled, she begins reading again._

_Thorin glowers down at his younger brother who watches him with his large brown eyes. Thorin was curled up against his mother’s side, but it is not the same. Frerin’s feet dig into his side and his mother’s arm is not wrapped around him as securely as it was before. As Thorin watches Frerin, the little boy yawns widely and snuggles towards his mother’s chest. Thorin pointedly ignores his younger brother at that moment to focus on the story and the web of words that his mother’s voice is weaving._

**2786 Third Age, Late Spring – Dunland**

Thorin startles awake when a pair of feet that are much larger than a baby’s dig into his ribs. Dís’ wild hair is spread across chest. He assumes that it is her feet that are digging into the soft spot below his ribs. Someone’s bare feet press against his calves – _‘Frerin.’ –_ And he shifts his legs so the feet fall to the mattress. Thorin’s left side is pressed up against the rough wood of the wall. He shifts uncomfortably away from the feet. The rough woods presses into his skin but he only receives minor relief from the pressure in his side. He cautiously lifts his head – to avoid disturbing Dís – to see that there is over a foot and a half of space on the other side of Frerin that is failing to be utilized.

The light of a sunrise is beginning to peek through the wide-open window. _‘Might as well get up. I’ll never be able to fall back to sleep now,’_ Thorin grumbles mentally as he examines the bed to see if there is any way that he can get out of the bed without disturbing the other inhabitants.

Thorin eventually scoots himself down and off the end of the bed. He just slides out from under the heavy limbs of his younger siblings. He quickly buckles on his belt and pulls on his shoes. He runs a cursory check to make sure that all of his belongs are in their proper places. He hated reaching for an item only to have left it at home or elsewhere.

While he was dressing the light of the sun had continued creeping into the room and filling it with warm light. When Thorin pauses to look over the loose and sleeping bodies of Frerin and Dís, he watches the dust dance in the sunbeam that falls over the bed. He quickly draws the shutters to lock out the bright light. None of them had slept well the past several days. He sees no reason why he should leave the window open for the light to wake them when they need sleep – healing sleep was what Lörwid had called it – desperately.

Thorin shuts the door quietly behind him and descends the stairs as quietly as possible. There are a few steps that always creak and some that only creak if you step on them in a particular spot. Thorin knows all of those spots and steps by heart. He no longer as to think about where to step as he half runs down the narrow, steep stairs.

The morning is early, but he plans on heading to the forge. Nobody expected him to return to working, but he feels like he is going to go crazy if he spends another minute sitting on the couch with his family while they all avoid staring at one another. Sitting there waiting for another family to bring by food. Food to cover their time in mourning, Thorin had always thought that it was weird, but it meant that there was still a half-loaf of bread in the breadbox that no one else had eaten yet.

He rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs intending to grab the bread, maybe some honey, and leave the house before anyone else woke up for the day. Thorin freezes when he sees his father stretched out on the couch. One of Thráin’s shoulders is wedge into the cushions while the other hangs off the edge of the couch. His hands are crossed over his chest. There is a blanket that stretches haphazardly over Thráin’s sleeping form, but it is only covering him from one shoulder to where it is caught on one of his feet.

Thorin stares at his father. _‘Why isn’t he sleeping in the bedroom?’_ he wonders to himself as he listens to his father’s snores. He remembers his father falling asleep in the sitting room on Erebor while reading. Rather than waking her husband, Frís would simply tuck a blanket around his sleeping form. Thorin looks but tonight there are no books present. There is also no Frís to tuck a blanket around her husband or place a pillow beneath his head.

Thorin sighs. His father’s outburst a few nights before had revealed to his eldest son exactly how hard he was taking the death of Frís. Thráin was stoic much of the time. Anger came slowly if it came at all. However, deep frustration and irritation with things that he could not change or when people did not listen to him.

Thorin misses his mother, but deep sorrow wells up in the pit of his stomach for his father. He misses his mother, but he knows that it is not in the same way that Thráin misses Frís. Thorin tugs the blanket off his father’s prone form and begins to tuck it around his father just as he had seen Frís do so many times before.

After making sure that his father is covered, he grabs the loaf of bread before walking outside in the sun, which by this time has risen over the trees and rooftops. Smoke is beginning to rise from the chimneys of the other homes. A familiar homey smell that he has smelt every morning over the last several years.

The forge is located at the center of town around the town square that is full of trees. He expected to find it empty this early in the morning but he sees the glow and a shadowy figure moving about in the darkness through the open shutters. He groans, he was hoping to have the forge to himself this morning. He was looking forward to time alone in the heat and blaze of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates should be regular again now. I was writing chapters as a way to procrastinate doing my coursework so as soon as my coursework was finished I lost my writing time. I’ve had to find a new time to work. Thanks for everyone patience! As always comments, etc. are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Khâzash - brother


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